I   LIBRARY] 

UNIVERSITY  OF 

CALIFORNIA 

I      SAN  DIEGO     J 


161 


To 

VONDA  MARIE  WARMAN 

WITH  THE  FULL  TIDE 
OF  A  FATHER'S  LOVE 


00 


SONGS 

of 

CY  WARMAN 


Published  by 

BAND  AVERT  CO.,   BOSTON 
McLEOD  &  ALLEN,  TORONTO 


COPYRIGHT,  1911 

RAND  AVERT  Co., 

BOSTON. 


CONTENTS 

SONGS 

PAGE 

SAPHO 9 

WHEN  THE  DARK  COMES  DOWN 10 

WHEN  SHE  SINGS 11 

WHEN  THE  Cows  ARE  COMING  HOME 12 

THE  SAD  SEA 13 

You,  LOVE 14 

HAPPY  FOLKS 15 

INDIANA 16 

CUPID  is  KING  OP  THE  SEAS 18 

SONG  OF  A  SERENADER 19 

How  I  LOVE  HER 21 

HEART  OF  MY  HEART 21 

THIS  LITTLE  PIG  WENT  TO  MARKET 22 

FORGOTTEN 24 

ALL  is  WELL 25 

HERE  BELOW 26 

THE  JOY  OF  LOVE 27 

WE  WERE  DECEIVED 28 

WTOMAN'S  SILENCE 29 

IT  MEANS  so  MUCH 30 

LITTLE  PAPOOSE 31 

LITTLE  WILD  GOOSE 32 

THE  SEA            34 

THE  LONG,  HARD  HILL 35 

A  COUNTRY  TOWN 37 

FIDDLE-DE-DEE '     .  38 

CLICKETY  CLICK 39 

HUSH-A-BY,  LITTLE  ONE,  SLEEP 40 

THE  LAND  OF  ANNIE  LAURIE 41 

CONSTANCY 42 

ASHES 43 

MORNING  ON  THE  YUKON 44 

AGNES,  I  LOVE  THEE 45 

WHOM  DO  YOU  LOVE? 46 

THE  COLUMBINE 47 

OLD  RED  Hoss  MOUNTAIN 48 

THE  DESERT  MAIL 50 

IT  CANNOT  BE 51 

THE  EYES  OF  LIZZETTE 52 

"  AND  YOU'LL  REMEMBER  ME  " 53 

MY  LITTLE  LOVE 54 

NATURE  SONGS 55 

Hoss  SENSE 55 

AN  ANTIQUE  LOVE  SONG 56 

LOVE  AMONG  THE  MOUNTAINS 57 

NON  COMMITTAL 58 

MOTHER  AND  I 59 

AN'  DE  WATAHMELON'S  RIPEN'  ALL  AROUN' 61 

BECAUSE  WE  LOVE 62 

SWEET  MARIE 63 

THE  CONVENT 64 

SONG  OF  A  SOUND  SAILOR  .  65 


CONTENTS 


THOUGHTFUL  RHYMES 

PAGE 

WILL  THE  LIGHTS  BE  WHITE? 69 

ALASKA 70 

THIS  LIFE  is  GOOD 71 

HEREAFTER 72 

"  ALL'S  WELL  WITH  THE  WORLD  " 74 

THE  HARVEST 75 

THE  RISE  AND  FALL  OF  CREEDE 76 

THE  SOUL  OF  THE  SASKATCHEWAN 78 

THE  BULL  TEAM 79 

THE  WRECK  AT  CABAZA 80 

Two  SOLDIERS 81 

SANGRE  DE  CHRISTO 82 

THERE  is  NO  DEATH 83 

UNDER  THE  WILLOWS 84 

LITTLE  THERESA,  THE  WAIF 86 

MY  FRIEND  —  THE  PROSPECTOR 87 

IN  THE  TWILIGHT 

WHERE  WOMEN  DON'T  Go 89 

WE  NEVER  KNOW 90 

GOD  is  LOVE 91 

GIVE  us  THIS  DAY 92 

WAITING  FOR  THE  WILD  GOOSE 93 

TRANSPORTATION 94 

TO-MORROW 95 

"  GIVE  ME  NOT  RICHES  " 96 

GRIEF 96 

MEMORIAL  DAY 97 

THE  STAGE  COACH 98 

THE  CRY  OF  A  SHIPWRECKED  SOUL 99 

THE  WIDOWER 101 

THE  ISOLATION  OF  A  CHILD 102 

THE  WEST 103 

THE  CANON  OF  THE  GRAND 104 

IN  MEMORY 105 

Sic  TRANSIT  GLORIA  MUNDI 106 

WHERE  THE  FLOWERS  TALK 107 

WHEN  WE  GO  OFF  AND  DIE 108 

Lo,  THE  POOR  INDIAN 109 

WORRISOME  JIM Ill 

BAD  ON  THE  BIRD 112 

GENTLE  ANNIE 113 

THE  WAY  WE  WALKED 114 

THE  CITY  CHOIR 115 

WE  AIN'T  HAD  NO  SPRING 116 

THE  DEATH  OF  A  DEW-DROP 116 

THE  PRINTER 117 

JEALOUSY 117 

THE  FLYER 118 

ENGINE  .007 119 

I  OUGHT  TO  BE  BETTER 123 

THE  PRINCESS  INGINITA 124 

THE  PASSING  OF  THE  LOCOMOTIVE  —  A  REVERIE  ....  125 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

BY-AND-BY 126 

I  WOULD  KNOW  MY  NATIVE  LAND 127 

ON  MARSHALL  PASS 128 

PERIOD! 130 

THE  ALL  RED  INDIAN 131 

THE  SUNDOWN  SEA      .           133 

THE  CRY  OF  A  WOUNDED  HEART 134 

LOCAL  COLOR 134 

IS  IT  REALLY  ANY  GOOD? 135 

AT  THE  RAINBOW'S  TIP 138 

A  TOAST 138 

To  BABY  ASLEEP 139 

A  REPORTER'S  REPORT 140 

SUMMER'S  GONE 145 

THE  POET  AND  THE  PUBLISHER 146 

THE  FIRST  CHRISTMAS  GIFT 146 

ADOWN  THE  DUSKY  DELL 147 

MISUNDERSTOOD 148 

GONE 149 


CITIES  I  HAVE  SEEN 

COLORADO  SPRINGS 153 

JERUSALEM .  154 

SALT  LAKE 155 

IN  MONTREAL 155 

CHEYENNE 156 

CAIRO 158 

SAN  FRANCISCO,  1894 159 

CREEDE 160 

DENVER 161 

IN  SAINT  PAUL 162 

CRIPPLE  CREEK 163 

AT  JAFFA .  164 


MORE  OR  LESS  PERSONAL 

A  TRIBUTE  TO  DR.  DRUMMOND 167 

To  A  PHOTOGRAPH  —  B.  W 168 

PAULINE 168 

ROBERT  ELLIOT 169 

To  MRS. FOR  CHARITY 170 

BILL  AND  HY 171 

JIU-JITZU  ?-s.  HOCKEY 172 

FRIENDSHIP 173 

To  JULIAN  RALPH,  IN  CHINA    .      .  175 

ToJ.  W.  S.. 175 

HIM 176 

HENRY  PREW 176 

FATHER  J.  C..  177 


Songs 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


SAPHO 

Soul  of  Sapho !  if  to-night, 
When  my  boat  is  drifting  near 

Your  fair  island,  spirit  bright; 
If  I  sing,  and  if  you  hear, 

From  your  island  in  the  sea, 
Soul  of  Sapho,  signal  me. 

Soul  of  Sapho !  they  have  said 
That  your  hair,  tho'  not  of  gold, 

Made  a  halo  for  your  head ; 

And  your  eyes,  I  have  been  told, 

Were  like  stars.     O !  from  the  sea, 
Soul  of  Sapho,  speak  to  me. 

Soul  of  Sapho,  awake,  awake, 
Wake  and  tune  your  harp  again; 

While  the  foaming  billows  break 
Let  your  song  sweep  o'er  the  main; 

From  your  island  in  the  sea, 
Soul  of  Sapho,  sing  to  me. 


[9] 


WHEN  THE  DARK  COMES  DOWN 

Queen  of  my  heart,  when  the  dark  comes  down, 
When  the  lingering  light  in  the  red,  warm  west 
Glows  faintly  and  fades  over  tower  and  town, 
A  new  light  burns  in  my  happy  breast. 
I  know  it  is  morning  wherever  thou  art, 
Queen  of  my  heart ! 

Queen  of  my  heart,  when  the  day  is  drear, 
And  I  take  my  scourge  for  the  deeds  I've  done, 
The  dark  clouds  scatter  when  you  draw  near, 
A  rainbow  smiles  on  the  setting  sun. 
There's  always  a  rainbow  wherever  thou  art, 
Queen  of  my  heart ! 

Queen  of  my  heart,  when  the  roses  die, 

And  the  low  winds  waltz  with  the  eddying  leaves, 

We  know  a  happiness,  you  and  I, 

Though  the  raindrops  drip  from  the  drooping 

eaves. 

I  know  it  is  summer,  wherever  thou  art, 
Queen  of  my  heart! 


[10] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


WHEN  SHE  SINGS 

When  she  sings  the  song  birds  listen, 
While  the  pearly  dewdrops  glisten 
On  the  hedge  and  on  the  hawthorn, 
Trembling,  poised  on  outspread  wings; 
And  at  night  the  moon  swings  nearer, 
And  the  stars  are  hushed  to  hear  her, 
E'en  the  nightingale  is  silent, 
Awed  and  silent  when  she  sings. 

When  she  sings  the  withered  grasses 
Catch  the  low  wind  as  it  passes, 

Whispering,  hush,  and  hushing  hearken 
While  the  dread  of  death  takes  wings; 
And  the  summer  roses,  d)dng, 
Smile  one  last  sweet  smile,  and  sighing, 
Fold  in  peace  their  perfumed  petals, 
Soothed  and  solaced,  when  she  sings. 


[11] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


WHEN  THE  COWS  ARE  COMING  HOME 

Come,  my  love,  and  let  us  wander 
'Cross  the  hills  and  over  yonder; 
We  shall  find  the  tangled  trails  we  used  to 

roam; 

Where  the  distant  sea  was  moaning 
And  the  honey  bees  were  droning 

In  the  twilight  when  the  cows  were  coming 
home. 

Hear  the  tingle,  tongle,  tangle  of  the  bells, 
As  they  dingle  on  the  downs  and  in  the  dells ; 

O'er  the  meadow  in  the  gloam 

See  the  cows  are  coming  home: 
Hear  the  dingle,  dongle,  dangle  of  the  bells. 

O,  the  sweet  forget-me-never, 
I  should  like  to  live  forever, 

Never  more  than  two  months  either  way  from 

June; 

Where  the  cherry  blooms  were  falling 
And  the  silver  bells  were  calling 

Through  the  twilight  of  a  summer's  afternoon. 


[12] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


THE  SAD  SEA 

"  What  makes  the  sea  so  sad,  mother?" 

Whispered  a  little  child. 
"  Why  do  the  billows  sigh  and  break, 

And  why  are  the  waves  so  wild?" 
"  The  rivers  run  down  to  the  sea 

With  all  their  grief,  my  lad, 
And  flood  the  sea  with  their  misery, 

And  that's  why  the  sea  is  sad. 

"  The  Hudson  goes  with  Gotham's  woes, 

And  Paris  chokes  the  Seine; 
The  Danube  blue  and  the  dark  Thames,  too, 

All  hurrying  to  the  main; 
Losing  the  song  of  the  running  rill, 

But  keeping  all  that's  bad, 
They  flood  the  sea  with  their  misery, 

And  that's  why  the  sea  is  sad." 


[13] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


YOU,  LOVE 

(A  Duet) 

"  When  the  rose  in  the  East  shows  the  long  night 
is  gone" 

"  I  wake  and  watch  for  you." 
"When  you  open  your  eyes,  love,  to  welcome 
the  dawn" 

"Darling,  they  look  for  you." 
"Through  the  long  summer  day,  in  the  sun's 

golden  gleam, 
When  the  night  shadows  fall  and  the  silver  stars 

beam, 

When   you   lie   a-sleeping,    of   whom   do   you 
dream?" 

"Darling,  of  you,  of  you." 

CHORUS 

Of  you,  love,  my  true  love, 

When  bright  stars  are  beaming, 
Of  you  I  am  dreaming, 

Of  you,  love,  my  true  love, 
My  darling,  of  you,  of  you. 

"  If  you  had  but  one  life  to  live,  where  would  you 
live?" 

"  Love,  I  would  live  near  you." 
[14] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


"Had  the  gods  but  one  gift,  what  would  you 
have  them  give?" 

"O,  I  would  ask  for  you." 
"If  you  had  the  wings  of  a  dove,  would  you 

breast 

The  wind  of  the  East  or  the  wind  of  the  West, 
And  when  you're  a-weary,  0,  where  would  you 
rest?" 

"  Darling,  near  you,  near  you." 

CHORUS 

Near  you,  love,  my  true  love, 

And  when  I  am  weary 

Of  wandering,  my  dearie, 
Near  you,  love,  my  true  love, 

My  darling,  near  you,  near  you. 


HAPPY  FOLKS 

Lucky  beggars  of  Barbados, 
Have  no  trouble  —  wear  no  clothes ; 
Want  a  banquet,  they  build  a  dish 
Of  sweet  potatoes  and  flying  fish ; 
And  that  I  reckon's  the  reason  why 
The  girls  are  sweet  and  the  boys  are  fly. 


[15] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


INDIANA 

Hear  the  boastful  bugles  screaming  high  above 

the  rolling  cheers, 
See  the  Hoosier  Gov'ner  beaming  on  his  valiant 

volunteers ; 
While  beneath  a  spreading  chestnut,  where  the 

somber  shadows  lie, 

A  soldier  and  his  sweetheart  say  good-bye. 
"  Forget?     I'll  ne'er  forget  you,  love,  and  you'll 

forget  me  not, 
Because  I'll  never  let  you  in  the  land  that  God 

forgot." 
Now  he  vows  with  lifted  gauntlet :  "  By  the  stars 

that  stud  the  blue, 
I'll  be  faithful  to  my  country  and  to  you." 

"  I'll  come  back  to  Indiana  when  this  wicked  war 

is  o'er, 
I'll  come  back  to  Indiana  and  I'll  leave  you, 

love,  no  more; 
We  shall  walk  and  talk  together  here  beneath 

our  native  sky, 
I'll  come  back  to  Indiana,  by-and-by." 

We  were  scouting  in  an  island  on  a  summer's 
afternoon, 

In  that  windless  hush  that  harbingers  the  trop- 
ical typhoon, 

[161 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARM  AN 


When  we  walked  into  an  ambuscade  and  made  a 

final  stand 

Where  we  fought  the  Filipinos,  hand  to  hand. 
I  could  see  our  banner  streaming,  I  could  hear 

the  lusty  cheers, 
I  could  see  our  good  swords  gleaming  'mongst 

the  foeman's  rusty  spears; 
When  a  naked,  blood-mad  Tino  whipped  around 

to  rear  and  thrust, 
And  our  valiant  Hoosier  captain  bit  the  dust. 

*         *         * 

"  Take  me  back  to  Indiana,  boys,  don't  leave  me 

here  to  rot 
On  the  bogs  and  moors  and  marshes  in  the  land 

that  God  forgot." 
Then  he  lay  and  stared  in  silence  up  against  the 

steely  sky : 
"Take  me  back  to  Indiana  when  I  die." 

(Softly) 

"Take  me  back  to  Indiana"    -he  was  groping 

for  our  hands. 
"Take  me  back  to  Indiana  —  there's  a  girl  in 

old  Vincennes  - 
0,  it  grieves  me  sore  that  sorrow  soon  shall  dim 

her  azure  eye; 
Take  me  back  to  Indiana  by-and-by." 


[17] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


CUPID  IS  KING  OF  THE  SEAS 

When  the  rain  falls  and  the  snow  palls, 

I  can  still  see  the  sunshine  above, 
Tho'  my  sky's  drear,  in  your  eyes,  dear, 

I  am  reading  my  rainbow  of  love. 
O'er  the  dark  tides  safe  my  barque  rides 

For  Cupid  is  King  of  the  Seas; 
When  the  wind  cries  my  heart  sighs : 

Eloise. 

When  the  gun  peals  and  the  sun  reels 

And  the  hushed  world  is  holding  its  breath, 
When  the  horns  blare  where  the  slain  stare 

And  the  Cannon  are  bellowing  death, 
Still  our  flag  streams  where  the  shell  screams 

For  Cupid  is  King  of  the  Seas. 
When  the  storm  dies  my  heart  sighs : 

Eloise. 


[18] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


SONG  OF  A  SERENADER 

One  night  beneath  my  window,  when  the  stars 

were  bright  above 

The  music  of  a  mandolin,  blent  with  a  lay  of  love, 
Came   stealing   through   the   stillness  like   the 

balmy  breath  of  spring; 
I  opened  up  my  window-blinds  and  heard  a 

singer  sing : 

"  Cupid  is  an  archer,  and  his  arrow's  ever  set, 
And  swift  and  sure  the  arrow  flies,  as  from  a 

falconet; 

His  bow  is  ever  trusty  and  his  aim  is  ever  true. 
Be  wary  of  the  archer  when  his  arrow's  aimed 

at  you!" 

At  first  I  only  lingered  there  to  listen  for  a  while. 
And  thought  the  singer  only  sang  the  hours  to 

beguile. 
My  heart  began  to  tremble  with  the  touch  of 

every  string. 
I  opened  wide  my  window-blinds  and  heard  the 

singer  sing : 

"  Cupid  is  an  archer,  and  his  arrow's  ever  set, 
And  swift  and  sure  the  arrow  flies,  as  from  a 

falconet ; 
His  bow  is  ever  trusty  and  his  aim  is  ever  true. 

[19] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


Be  wary  of  the  archer  when  his  arrow's  aimed 
at  you!" 

The  weary  day  I'm    waiting   for  the  twilight 

shades  to  fall, 
And  where  the  tangled  woodland  waves  I  hear 

the  lone  dove  call. 
The  song  of  running  brooklets  and  a  thousand 

birds  a-wing 
My  eager  ears  will  hear  not,  when  my  love  begins 

to  sing: 

"  Cupid  is  an  archer,  and  his  arrow's  ever  set, 
And  swift  and  sure  the  arrow  flies,  as  from  a 

falconet; 

His  bow  is  ever  trusty  and  his  aim  is  ever  true. 
Be  wary  of  the  archer  when  his  arrow's  aimed  at 

you!" 


[20] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARM  AN 


HOW  I  LOVE  HER 

Go,  laughing,  leaping,  romping  rill, 

Go  where  my  love  is  straying, 
And,  in  the  pools  when  you  are  still, 

Then  list  to  what  she's  saying; 
And  with  the  sunny,  summer  skies 

Of  azure  arched  above  her, 
Show  her  her  own  angelic  eyes, 

And  tell  her  how  I  love  her. 

Go,  gentle  winds,  soft,  sighing  winds, 

Go  where  my  love  is  sleeping, 
And  be  about  her  window  blinds 

And  through  the  curtains  creeping; 
Weave  in  the  wimples  of  her  hair 

The  perfume  of  the  clover, 
Caress  her  face,  so  sweet  and  fair, 

And  tell  her  how  I  love  her. 


HEART  OF  MY  HEART 

O,  darling !  the  first  pale  crocus  peeps 

Through  a  crack  in  the  crusted  snow; 
Awake  and  awaken  our  love  that  sleeps, 

Our  love  of  the  long  ago. 
And  O,  my  soul,  when  the  world  is  fair 

And  sweet  with  the  smell  of  June: 
Ah,  little  I  dreamed  you  would  cease  to  care  - 

Heart  of  my  heart  so  soon. 

[211 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARM  AN 


THIS   LITTLE   PIG   WENT   TO   MARKET 

The  moon  looked  down  on  Denver  one  matchless 

summer  night 
And  bathed  the  earth  in  splendor,  a  flood  of 

silver  light 
Suffused  the  hills  and  valleys,  all  warp't  in  sweet 

repose ; 
We  wandered  near  a  garden,  I  mind  I  smelled 

a  rose. 
We  rested  in  the  garden,   I   and   my   heart's 

delight : 

The   moon   beamed   down   on   Denver   that 
scented  summer  night. 

The  rain  came  down  in  Denver  one  blowy  au- 
tumn night, 
One  bleak  night  in  November,  and  blurred  the 

tower  light. 
I  told  my  love  a  story,  the  grate  glowed  warm 

and  red; 
She  toyed  with  her  fair  fingers,  then  slowly 

shook  her  head. 
She  kindly  drew  her  curtain  to  give  my  going 

light; 

Oh,    how   it   rained   in   Denver   that   black 
November  night ! 


[22] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


The  snow  came  down  in  Denver,  one  windless 

winter  night, 
And  robed  the  earth  in  splendor,  in  splendid 

robe  of  white; 
I  told  the  same  old  story,  she  did  not  shake  her 

head, 
But  toyed  with  her  fair  fingers.     I  took  her 

hand  and  said: 
"And  this  pig  went  to  market,   and  this  pig 

stayed  at  home. 

This  little  pig  had  roast  beef,  this  little  pig 
had  none." 


Eight  years !    The  snow  is  falling  to-night.     Not 

far  away 

I  hear  a  baby  calling  and  hear  its  mother  say: 
"And  this  pig  went  to  market,  and  this  pig 

stayed  at  home. 
This  little  pig  had  roast  beef,  this  little  pig 

had  none." 
Down  past  my  study  window  the  snow  flakes 

flutter  white, 

Just  as  they  did  in  Denver  that  windless  winter 
night. 


[231 


FORGOTTEN 

Far  out  in  the  West-land,  where  the  sun  goes  down, 
Dwelt  a  little  maiden  in  a  mountain  town. 
Oft  I  used  to  see  her  —  oft  I  used  to  say : 
"I  will  sing  a  love  song  to  the  maid  some  day." 

Drearily  the  years  dragged ;  she  was  very  young ; 
I  was  much  her  senior  when  the  song  was  sung ; 
Still,  I  thought  a  teardrop  trembled  in  her  eye 
When  she  stood  a-tiptoe  kissing  me  good-by. 

Far  away  I  wandered,  where  the  breakers  roar, 
Where  the  mighty  ships  come  from  a  foreign 

shore; 
How  my  poor  heart  hungered,  when  the  sun 

went  down, 
For  the  little  maiden  in  the  mountain  town. 

Years:    the  city  lured  me   with   a   thousand 

charms, 

And  I  soon  grew  weary  of  my  idle  arms. 
Myriads  of  maidens,  hair  of  golden  brown  - 
I  forgot  the  maiden  in  the  mountain  town. 

Wretch!   how  oft  her  pillow  has  been  wet  with 

tears; 
How  she  must  have  mourned  me  all  these  weary 

years ! 

Sitting  with  her  sorrow  'neath  the  cedar  there, 
Weaving  little  wild  flowers  in  her  sunny  hair. 
[24] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


Now,  her  tear-stained  face  did  haunt  me  so 

to-day, 

That  I  turned  for  surcease  to  the  matinee. 
Lo !    My  mountain  maid,  with  new  and  sunnier 

hair, 
Sans  her  sorrow  played  as  leading  lady  there. 


ALL  IS  WELL 

Slowly  my  native  shore  sinks  in  the  sea, 
O,  must  we  meet  no  more,  Vonda  Marie? 

Lo,  now  life's  summer  dies 

There  where  my  treasure  lies; 
God  give  you  sunny  skies,  Vonda  Marie. 

Slowly  the  dark  ship  ploughs  deep  in  the  waves, 
Over  the  armored  bows  Old  Ocean  laves ; 

Here  comes  a  screaming  shell, 

There  goes  the  midnight  bell  - 
God  watches  —  all  is  well,  Vonda  Marie. 


[25], 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


HERE  BELOW 

You  can  talk  about  your  honey- 
Suckle  home  beyond  the  sky, 

Your  sun-kissed  over  yonder, 
And  your  blooming  by-and-by ; 

Of  the  silver  waves  that  warble 
Up  against  the  golden  shore ; 

Of  your  heathery  hereafter, 
And  your  endless  evermore, 

But  if  you've  a  lot  of  rapture 
And  would  like  to  let  it  go, 

Just  sift  a  little  sunshine 
In  the  shadows  here  below. 

Don't  cluster  up  your  kisses 

For  my  cold  and  clammy  brow. 
This  life  is  long  and  lonely  - 

Come  and  let  me  feel  them  now. 
It's  all  right  to  lay  up  treasures 

In  the  realms  where  they  won't  rust; 
And  to  figure  on  the  future, 

And  to  try  to  put  your  trust 
In  Him  who  made  the  Universe; 

But  it  won't  hurt,  I  know, 
To  sift  a  little  sunshine 

In  the  shadows  here  below. 


[26] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


THE  JOY  OF  LOVE 

Oh,  how  I  love  my  love ;  such  laughing  eyes  - 
Sweet,  dreamy  eyes,  like  little  sun-kist  seas, 

And  face  flushed  like  the  west  when  daylight  dies, 
Whose  breath  is  like  a  summer-scented  breeze. 

Where'er   she   walks   the   birds   sing   in   their 

bowers, 

And  mock  her  voice,  melodious  and  sweet; 
She  steals  the  peace  and  perfume  of  the  flowers 
Whose  little  leaves  are  crushed  beneath  her 
feet. 

'Twas  not  the  beauty  of  her  face  alone, 

Nor  yet  her  form,  my  willing  heart  that  stole, 

But  sweeter  still,  the  light  of  love  that  shone 
From  out  her  eyes,  reflected  from  her  soul. 

Long  winter  nights  we  watch  the  glowing  grate; 

Her  low,  sweet  laugh  makes  music  like  the 

streams 
That  flow  through  forests ;  when  I  leave  her  late 

'Tis  only  to  return  to  her  in  dreams. 

How  sweet  to  love,  to  have  the  heart  enslaved, 

Your  future  in  a  woman's  hands!     What  bliss 
To  know  each  day  life's  sweetest  sweets  are 

saved 
By  woman's  soft  caress  or  tender  kiss. 

[27] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


If  I  could  pray  a  prayer  that  God  would  hear 
And  answer,  I  would  ask  the  powers  above, 

That  all  mankind  upon  this  fading  sphere 
Be  once  allowed  to  taste  the  joy  of  love. 


WE  WERE  DECEIVED 

A  wild  Juanita,  black  and  tan, 

Rode  into  Wingate  on  a  mule ; 
Met  a  Chicago  traveling  man : 
Who  told  her,  as  a  drummer  can, 

That  she  was  wildly  beautiful. 
She  smiled,  she  hoped,  she  lived !    Alas ! 
She  looked  into  a  looking-glass. 

"You  are  a  poet,"  my  friend  said; 

"Your  fame  has  flashed  from  coast  to  coast. 
You  will  be  read  when  Riley's  dead, 
And  Field  has  faded.     Yes!"  he  said, 

"  If  not  before.    You're  Shakespeare's  ghost.' 
But  now,  I  sympathize  with  her, 
The  maid;  I've  seen  the  publisher. 


[28] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


WOMAN'S  SILENCE 

'Tain't  no  use  to  woo  a  woman  when  she  thinks 

she  wants  to  talk; 
'Cause  a  woman's  only  human,  and  you'd  better 

take  a  walk 
'Till  she  simmers  down  and  settles;    when  a 

woman's  on  her  ear, 
What  she  has  to  say  in  silence  is  the  pleasantest 

to  hear. 

'Tain't  no  use  to  try  to  crowd  her,  'cause  she's 

bound  to  have  her  say; 
You  talk  loud,  and  she'll  talk  louder;  it  is  best 

to  break  away, 
When  she's  in  the  upper  octaves,  better  wander 

from  her  view; 
For  the  song  she  sings  in  silence  is  the  sweetest 

song  for  you. 

But  you  can  coax  her  and  caress  her,  and  she'll 
melt  and  run  to  you 

Like  the  'lasses  on  your  pancakes  in  your  boy- 
hood used  to  do. 

If  you  have  a  sorrow  tell  her,  then  just  watch 
the  teardrops  fall, 

And  the  sighs  she  sighs  in  silence  are  the  saddest 
sighs  of  all. 


[29] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARM  AN 


When  you  ask  a  girl  to  marry,  and  she  hangs  on 
what  you've  said, 

While  your  hope  hangs  on  her  answer,  and  the 
moon  hangs  overhead; 

When  you  seem  to  see  the  thought  she  thinks, 
and  kinder  feel  her  fall, 

That's  her  answer,  said  in  silence,  'tis  the  sweet- 
est word  of  all. 


IT  MEANS  SO  MUCH 

Don't  think  me  mercenary,  pray, 
Because  I  fain  would  sell  this  rhyme, 

Or  any  rhyme;  but  every  day 

When  I  sit  down  to  write,  each  time, 

I've  this  assurance,  all  the  while, 

'Twill  make  at  least  one  woman  smile. 

E'en  though  it  may  be  hard  to  guess, 
Unless  to  dally  with  the  muse, 

Just  why  we  write ;  some  will  excuse 
And  some  will  call  it  meaningless; 

But,  Oh,  it  means  so  much  to  her, 
My  golden-haired  stenographer. 


[30] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


LITTLE  PAPOOSE 

Little  papoose  in  a  wicker  of  reed, 

Under  the  willow  bough  swings, 
Catching  the  music  where  over  the  mead 

Rippling  the  rivulet  sings. 
Sings  where  the  fairest  of  flowers  are  found, 
Sings  where  the  summer  is  all  the  year  around, 
Here  where  the  beauties  of  nature  abound, 
Rippling  the  rivulet  sings. 

REFRAIN 

Swing,  swing,  little  papoose, 

Gitchie  will  mind  you 
Swing,  swing,  little  papoose 

Mitchie  won't  find  you, 
Swing,  swing,  little  papoose, 
Husha,  my  brown  baby,  swing. 

Agate  and  onyx  and  malachite  beads, 
Plata  that's  ribboned  and  rolled; 

Mocassins  made  from  the  bark  of  the  reeds, 
Glittering  garters  of  gold. 

Catching  the  sound  with  his  delicate  ear, 

Catching  the  croon  when  his  mother  is  near. 

Hearing  the  hoofs  of  the  galloping  deer, 
Bounding  away  o'er  the  wolde. 


[31] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


LITTLE  WILD  GOOSE 

A  wild  goose  lit  in  the  Lake  of  Bays,  lighter  than 

the  floating  foam ; 
She  swam  around  for  days  and  days  looking  for 

a  summer  home. 

She  found  a  place  and  she  made  a  nest, 
Screened  from  the  wind  of  the  wide  North 

West 

And  she  warmed  her  eggs  with  eider  breast, 
Cosy  little  summer  home. 

A  grey  goose  gave  her  things  to  eat,  gathered 

from  the  floating  foam; 
She  gave  him  love  and  life  was  sweet,  mating 

in  their  summer  home. 
And  there  they  lived  as  man  and  wife 
And  nothing  knew  of  care  or  strife, 
'Till  beneath  her  breast  she  felt  new  life 
Waking  in  her  summer  home. 

The  baby  geese  began  to  swim,  floating  on  the 

floating  foam ; 
Just  little  laps  from  her  to  him,  —  happy  little 

summer  home. 

But  one  of  them  got  up  to  fly 
And  he  soared  away  to  the  sunny  sky, 
Then  the  mother  goose  began  to  cry : 
"O!  little  wild  goose,  come  home." 
[32] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


He  bathed  his  back  in  the  summer  sun,  high  up 

in  the  azure  dome, 
Above  a  bad  man  with  a  gun  —  "  0 !  little  wild 

goose,  come  home." 
He  raised  his  voice  and  he  tried  to  sing 
Such  a  quaint  crude  song,  poor  little  thing ! 
Then  tumbled  down  with  a  broken  wing, 
"  0 !  little  wild  goose,  come  home." 

The  mother  wild  goose  saw  him  fall  and  flutter  in 

the  floating  foam ; 
The  wounded  wild  goose  heard  her  call,  "0! 

little  wild  goose,  come  home." 
He  knew  which  way  he  ought  to  go 
And  he  tried  to  swim,  but  he  swam  so  slow, 
For  the  wounded  wing  now  pained  him  so, 
"O!  little  wild  goose,  come  home." 

The  wild  goose  soared  across  the  lake,  high  above 

the  floating  foam ; 
It  seemed  to  her  her  heart  would  break;    "O! 

little  wild  goose,  come  home." 
Then  the  baby  caught  his  mother's  tail 
And  across  the  lake  the  two  set  sail; 
Thus  towed  he  rode  with  a  Gitche  gale 
And  the  little  wild  goose  went  home. 


[33] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


She  folded  up  his  wounded  wing,  floating  on  the 

floating  foam ; 
And  said,  "Don't  cry,  poor  little  thing,  little 

wild  goose  is  home." 
And  when  the  baby  goose  could  stand 
And  flap  his  wings  on  the  shifting  sand, 
He  soared  away  to  a  sunny  land, 
And  the  little  wild  goose  went  home. 


THE  SEA 

If  I  had  too  much  money,  money  that  I  couldn't 

use, 
I'd  spring  a  new  philanthrophy  that  would  be 

joyful  news 

To  seven  million  babies  (if  such  a  thing  might  be) 
Whom  I'd  round  up  and  I'd  lead  down  to  the  sea, 
And  let  them  cool  their  kick-kicks  in  the  sea. 

And  with  them  all  lined  up  there  and  holding 

hand  to  hand, 
Their  happy  faces  shining  like  sunlight  on  the 

sand; 
Angels  would  ope  their  windows  (if  such  a  thing 

might  be) 

To  see  so  many,  sinless,  by  the  sea 
And  watch  them  cool  their  kick-kicks  in  the 

sea. 
[34] 


THE  LONG  HARD  HILL 

They  were  standing  in  the  sunlight 

Of  the  summer  time  of  life; 
She  was  still  without  a  husband, 

He  was  waiting  for  a  wife. 
And  her  cheeks  were  rich  and  rosy 

And  her  lips  were  lucious  red, 
So  he  pressed  her  dimpled  fingers 

As  he  looked  at  her  and  said, 
As  they  stood  there  in  the  heather 

Where  the  road  had  crossed  the  rill : 
"  May  we  not  fare  together 

Up  this  long,  hard  hill?" 

Now  her  hand  began  to  tremble 

And  her  eyes  were  full  of  tears 
As  she  trained  them  on  the  road  that 

Wound  away  among  the  years ; 
But  she  had  no  voice  to  answer 

Him ;  she  could  not  understand, 
For  the  future  lay  before  her 

Like  a  far-off  fairy  land. 
There  was  sunlight  on  the  heather, 

There  was  music  in  the  rill, 
As  they  went  away  together 

Up  the  long,  hard  hill. 


[35] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


Oftentimes  the  way  was  sunny, 

Other  times  'twas  full  of  lures, 
But  the  love  that  had  come  to  them 

Was  the  true  love  that  endures. 
Though  the  bony  brow  is  wrinkled, 

Though  the  raven  lock  be  gray, 
Yet  the  road  might  have  been  rougher 

Had  she  gone  the  other  way. 
Now  the  frost  is  on  the  heather 

And  the  snow  is  on  the  rill, 
And  they're  coasting  down  the  short  side 

Of  the  long,  hard  hill. 


[361 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


A  COUNTRY  TOWN 

I  like  the  freedom  of  a  country  town, 

The  air  and  the  open  of  the  country; 
You  can  tell  when  the  sun  goes  up  and  down 

Out  in  the  God-made  country. 
The  creeks  are  clear  and  the  skies  are  blue, 
The  hearts  of  the  people  are  kind  and  true 
An'  folks  do  just  as  they  want  to  do, 
Folks  that  are  livin'  in  the  country. 

I  like  the  color  of  a  country  town, 

Almost  the  color  of  the  country ; 
Farmer's  wife  in  a  country  gown, 

Bringin'  in  things  from  the  country. 
Water-melons  an'  sweet  nut-megs, 
Country  butter  an'  country  eggs, 
Country  girls  an'  chickens  with  plump  hard  legs, 

All  comin'  in  from  the  country. 


[37] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


FIDDLE-DE-DEE 

The  Irishman,  Dutchman  and  Frenchman  in  me 
Are  always  contending  —  their  purposes  cross ; 

Wherever  I  journey  there  journey  the  three, 
Each  claiming  predominant  right  to  be  boss 

Of  the  big  job  of  Life;  they  cannot  agree, 

This  Irishman,  Dutchman  and  Frenchman  in  me. 

Says  the  Dutchman:  "Get  up  once  and  harvest 

the  hay 
Before  the  sunshines  —  would  you  be  yet  a 

tramp 
For  the  rest  of  your  life?    There  will  come  a  wet 

day; 

Put  something  aside."  The  Hibernian  scamp, 
Says,  tugging  my  sleeve,  with  a  wink  of  his  eye : 
"Be  'asy  —  ye're  Irish  —  ye'll  always  be  dhry." 

"Par  ici,"  the  Frenchman  calls,  leading  the  way, 
We  walk  where  the  South  Wind  is  cradling 
Spring. 

We  paint  pleasant  pictures  the  long  Summer  day, 
And  gather  primroses,  and  loiter  and  sing. 

And  so,  we  do  nothing  but  fiddle-de-dee, 

This  Irishman,  Dutchman  and  Frenchman  in  me. 


[38] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


CLICKETY  CLICK 

Clickety  click !  as  out  of  town 

The  engine  picks  her  way; 
Where  barefoot  children,  sunburnt  brown, 

In  dusty  alleys  play. 
All  the  summer,  early  and  late, 

And  in  the  autumn  drear, 
A  maiden  stands  at  the  orchard  gate, 

And  waves  at  the  engineer. 

He  likes  to  look  at  her  face  so  fair, 

And  her  homely  country  dress ; 
She  likes  to  look  at  the  man  up  there 

At  the  front  of  the  fast  express. 
Clickety  click !  though  miles  apart, 

To  her  he  is  always  near, 
And  she  feels  the  click  of  her  happy  heart 

For  the  heart  of  the  engineer. 

Over  the  river  and  down  the  dell, 

Beside  the  running  stream, 
She  hears  the  clang  of  the  engine-bell  - 

The  whistle's  startled  scream. 
Clickety  click !    An  open  switch  - 

Onward  the  engine  flies. 
Clickety  click !    They're  in  the  ditch ! 

Oh,  angels !  hide  her  eyes ! 


[391 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


Clickety  click,  and  down  the  track 

The  train  will  dash  to-day; 
But  what  of  the  ribbons  of  white  and  black 

The  engine  wears  away; 
Clickety  click !    Oh,  worlds  apart  - 

The  maiden  hangs  her  head. 
There  is  no  click  in  the  maiden's  heart  - 

The  engineer  is  dead. 


HUSH-A-BY,  LITTLE  ONE,  SLEEP 

Nature  is  sinking  to  peaceful  repose, 

Hush-a-by,  little  one,  sleep; 
Sweetly  the  dewdrop's  asleep  on  the  rose, 

Hush-a-by,  little  one,  sleep. 
Heaven  shield  father  wherever  he  be, 
Whether  on  land  or  the  billowy  sea, 
And  bring  him  back  to  his  baby  and  me  - 

Hush-a-by,  little  one,  sleep. 

Lightly  the  ripples  play  over  the  rill, 

Hush-a-by,  little  one,  sleep; 
Singing  the  wild  rose  to  sleep  on  the  hill, 

Hush-a-by,  little  one,  sleep. 
Softly  the  katydid  sings  in  the  vines, 
Up  from  the  lowlands  the  murmuring  winds 
Steal  through  the   stillness  to  play  with   the 
pines  - 

Hush-a-by,  little  one,  sleep. 
[40] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


THE  LAND  OF  ANNIE  LAURIE 

Where  the  mists  of  London  come  not 

To  obscure  the  Scottish  sky; 
Where  they  call  a  maid  a  "  Lassie/' 

And  they  all  say  "dee"  for  die; 
In  my  hands  I  hold  the  heather, 

And  my  feet  are  in  the  ferns 
Of  the  Land  of  Annie  Laurie 

And  the  home  of  Bobbie  Burns. 

Now  I  put  the  hills  behind  me, 

And  o'er  the  ocean  gray, 
I  gaze  out  toward  the  Occident 

With  tear- wet  eyes  to-day; 
To  earth's  mainland  —  America  - 

My  tired  spirit  turns 
From  the  Land  of  Annie  Laurie, 

And  the  home  of  Bobbie  Burns. 


[41] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


CONSTANCY 

When  the  ringdove  is  calling 

Down  the  woodland,  little  darling, 
When  the  hills  have  turned  green 

And  all  nature  is  new; 
When  the  gentle  rain,  falling 

O'er  this  good  land,  little  darling, 
Makes  the  old  earth  grow  glad, 

Then  my  heart  yearns  for  you. 

When  the  brown  birds  are  winging 

O'er  the  moorland,  little  darling, 
And  the  gray  gulls  are  blown 

With  the  mist  o'er  the  blue, 
Then  I  long  for  the  warm  clasp 

Of  your  hand,  little  darling; 
When  this  old  earth  seems  sad, 

Then  my  heart  yearns  for  you. 


[421 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


ASHES 

Alone,  on  the  birdless  barrens, 

Alone  by  a  southern  sea, 
The  ghosts  of  the  days  that  have  vanished 

Come  scurrying  back  to  me. 

Then  a  face  on  my  memory  flashes 
Like  the  flash  of  a  falling  star, 

When  I'm  flicking  the  fading  ashes 
From  the  end  of  a  good  cigar. 

Life's  spring,  with  its  buds  of  promise, 
Life's  summer,  with  rose  of  June; 

But  the  buds,  they  burst  so  early, 
And  the  roses  die  o'er  soon. 

A  rustle  of  silk  and  laces, 

The  wind  of  a  passing  car, 
Then  gray  are  the  once  glad  faces, 

Like  the  ash  of  my  good  cigar. 


[43] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


MORNING  ON  THE  YUKON 

Twas  morning  on  the  Yukon : 

The  Yukon  winds  were  fair. 
Sunshine  in  the  maiden's  eyes; 

Sunlight  on  her  hair : 
Sunlight  on  the  ripples, 

Where  the  White  Horse  rapids  roll. 
They  found  a  broken  toll-gate, 

And  the  maiden  paid  the  toll. 

The  gate  had  been  abandoned. 

To  the  man  'twas  not  amiss. 
He  fixed  the  rate  of  tollage, 

And  the  maiden  paid  a  kiss. 
The  sunlight  kissed  the  ripples, 

Where  the  White  Horse  rapids  roll, 
Beside  the  broken  toll-gate, 

Where  the  maiden  paid  the  toll. 

He  plucked  a  bunch  of  wild  flowers, 

And  matched  them  with  her  eyes : 
He  matched  them  with  her  ribbon, 

And  matched  them  with  the  skies. 
A  willow  arched  the  pathway. 

He  whispered,  "  O,  my  soul, 
The  fairies  made  this  toll-gate, 

And  the  maiden  paid  the  toll. 


[44] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


AGNES,  I  LOVE  THEE 

(After  Hiene) 

I  stooped  and  wrote  upon  the  sand 
Along  the  shore,  with  trembling  hand, 
These  words  that  she  might  understand : 

Agnes,  I  love  thee. 

I  watched  the  gentle  waves  wash  o'er 
These  lines  that  lay  upon  the  shore, 
And  leave  them  fairer  than  before : 
Agnes,  I  love  thee. 

And  so  our  love,  from  day  to  day 
Grew  stronger,  better  every  way, 
Until  at  last  I  dared  to  say: 
Agnes,  I  love  thee. 

Alas,  the  sea  got  full  one  day 
And  came  ashore  and  washed  away 
These  lines  that  near  the  water  lay : 
Agnes,  I  love  thee. 

I  climbed  upon  a  mountain  high, 
Plucked  a  charred  snag,  wrote  on  the  sky, 
Above  the  waters  high  and  dry: 
Agnes,  I  love  thee. 

"I'd  like  to  see  some  sloppy  sea," 
Said  I,  "  slide  up  this  canopy 
And  monkey  with  my  motto,  see? 

Agnes,  I  love  thee." 

[45] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARM  AN 


WHOM  DO  YOU  LOVE? 

"  Whom  do  you  love,  my  love?"  she  said, 

As  I  bent  my  face  above  her; 
And  I  tried  to  calm  her  and  held  her  head, 
And  again  in  the  same  sweet  voice  she  said : 

"  Whom  do  you  love,  my  lover?" 

"  Look  in  your  heart  to-night  and  see 

If  there  is  a  shadow  in  it, 
A  shadow  of  a  thought  that  is  not  of  me, 
And  tell  me  truly  if  there  should  be  - 

Whom  do  you  love  this  minute?" 

"  Whom  do  you  love?  "  —and  her  trembling  hand 

Left  wandering  caresses 
Upon  my  face,  and  all  the  land 
Was  lit  with  love,  and  the  night  wind  fanned 

Her  brow  and  shook  her  tresses. 

"A  woman's  love  is  a  priceless  prize, 
And  if  you  should  want  to  win  it" 
And  again  I  looked  and  to  my  surprise, 
I  saw  two  tears  in  her  deep,  dark  eyes : 
"Whom  do  you  love  this  minute?" 

"  Whom  do  you  love?  "    -  and  I  caught  the  swell 

Of  her  breast  her  grief  had  given, 
And  I  touched  her  lips,  and  I  smelled  the  smell 
Of  the  passion  flower  and  the  Asphodel, 

And  earth  was  changed  to  heaven. 
[46] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


"  To  me  there's  just  one  world,  my  dear, 

And  just  two  people  in  it, 
And  now  to-night  as  we  stand  here 
And  I  hold  your  hand  have  not  a  fear, 

For  I  love  you  every  minute." 


THE  COLUMBINE 

Sweet  Marie,  here's  a  columbine, 

The  summer  can  surely  spare  it. 
See!    Here's  a  delicate  twig  to  twine, 
To  braid  in  this  beautiful  hair  of  thine. 
Sweet  Marie,  here's  a  columbine  - 

Take  it,  my  queen,  and  wear  it ! 

Waved  by  the  wind  in  the  summer  time  ; 

Wet  by  the  summer  showers; 
Blown  in  the  balm  of  this  beautiful  clime, 
Over  our  heads  where  the  hills  are  rime; 
Waved  by  the  winds  in  the  summer  time  - 

Fairest  of  forest  flowers. 

And  I  have  brought  you  this  flower  so  fair, 
Plucked  from  the  hills  above  you, 

To  weave  in  the  waves  of  your  beautiful  hah*, 

Or  wear  in  your  breast  where  the  love  songs  are. 

I  have  brought  you  this  boutonniere  - 
Take  it,  because  I  love  you. 

[47] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


OLD  RED  HOSS  MOUNTAIN 

I've  been  to  Red  Hoss  Mountain,  where  Field 

once  dwelt  and  wrote ; 
I've  seen  the  Place  de  Casey,  but  Casey's  table 

d'hote 

Is  gone;  and  so  is  Casey.     A  solitary  pine 
The  fires  have  spared  now  shadows  the  Gosh-all- 

Hemlock  Mine. 

There's  not  a  cabin  standing,  so  that  a  man  may  say, 
"  The  conversazzhyony  in  this  abode  held  sway." 
Aye,  everything  has  perished  save  earth  and  sky 

and  space; 
The  bard  of  Red  Hoss  Mountain  is  gone  to  his 

own  place. 

The  mines  are  all  abandoned,  the  rain-washed 

trails  are  dim; 
But  where  are  all  the  people  who  tramped  these 

trails  with  him?  [ago, 

And  where  are  all  the  actors  he  staged  here  long 
When  magpies,  "like  winged  shadows,  were 

fluttering  to  and  fro"? 

The  trees  that  made  the  forest  have  fallen,  one 

by  one, 
Until  Old  Red  Hoss  Mountain  lies  bare  beneath 

the  sun; 
[48] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


Yet,  in  the  deathlike  stillness  that  hangs  upon 

the  air, 
I  love  to  sit  and  fancy  I  feel  his  presence  there. 

Sweet  soul !    He  knew  a  heartache  if  e'en  a  robin 

cried, 
Then  how  he  must  have  sorrowed  when  Martha's 

baby  died; 
When  strong,  rough  men  stood  weeping  who  had 

not  wept  for  years; 
With  Martha's  heart  nigh  breaking  and  Sorry 

Tom  in  tears. 

*         *         * 

The  brook  that  sang  so  "  lonesome-like,  an'  loit- 
ered on  its  way" 

Is  singing  just  as  softly  and  lonesome-like  to-day. 

One  pine  above  the  hemlock  and  just  one  willow 
weeps 

Down  in  the  ragged  canyon  where  "Martha's 
younket"  sleeps. 


[49] 


THE  DESERT  MAIL 

When  your  feet  have  strayed  from  the  everglade 

To  the  shore  of  a  shipless  sea,    [you're  lost 
When  the  bar  you've  crossed  and  at  length 

In  its  hushed  immensity; 
When  you  search  the  wild,  with  a  silence  piled 

Waist  deep,  for  the  desert  trail, 
There's  a  distant  roar  like  a  sea  ashore, 

That's  the  moan  of  the  desert  mail. 

Through  the  racing  years  there  the  engineers 

Sit  close  to  the  cabin  pane, 
While  they  urge  their  steeds  where  the  white 
trail  leads 

Through  the  land  of  Little  Rain; 
Then  out  behind,  on  the  desert  wind, 

Blown  back  like  a  bridal  veil, 
Far,  dim  and  gray  like  the  milky  way, 

Floats  the  dust  of  the  desert  mail. 

WTien  the  gaunt  wolves  howl  where  the  spirits 
prowl  - 

The  ghosts  of  the  desert's  dead, 
And  the  living,  lost,  where  their  trails  have  crossed 

Mill  'round,  while  the  sun  paints  red 
The  western  skies,  as  the  long  day  dies 

And  the  stars  shine  dim  and  pale ; 
There's  a  beacon  fair  on  the  desert  there  - 

That's  the  light  of  the  desert  mail. 
[50] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


IT  CANNOT  BE 

The  dying  lips  of  a  dear  friend 

At  parting  spoke  to  me, 
Saying :  "  Wheresoe'er  your  path  may  trend 

There  ever  I  shall  be. 

"  Go  walk  where  over  Egypt's  sand 

The  burning  simoons  blow, 
Or  in  Alaska's  sunless  land, 

Your  wake  my  wings  shall  know. 

"  When  winter  nights  are  long  and  dark 

I'll  lead  you  by  the  hand, 
And  when  the  waves  beat  on  your  bark 

Will  beacon  you  to  land." 

He  died.     I  watched  his  spirit  go 

Across  death's  darkening  sea: 
He  came  not  back,  and  now  I  know 

Of  things  that  cannot  be. 


[51] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


THE  EYES  OF  LIZZETTE 

The  eyes  of  Lizzette  were  like  miniature  seas, 
With  ripples  that  laugh  and  willows  that  weep 

On  the  shore;  where  the  low-bending  boughs  of 

the  trees 
Deepen  and  soften  the  shadows  that  creep 

At  night,  near  the  water-edge.     Can  I  forget 

The  far-away,  ocean-like  eyes  of  Lizzette? 

Dear  eyes  of  Lizzette !  I  shall  see  them  no  more, 
They  are  curtained  in  sleep  —  she  is  gone,  she 

is  gone, 

With  her  beautiful  eyes  to  the  evergreen  shore; 
Death  winged  her  away  'twixt  the  dusk  and 

the  dawn. 
There's  a  mound  on  the  mountain-side  where  we 

first  met, 

And   the   columbine   blows   o'er   the   eyes   of 
Lizzette. 


[52] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


"AND  YOU'LL  REMEMBER  ME" 

One  evening,  as  the  sun  went  down 

Among  the  golden  hills 
And  silent  shadows,  soft  and  brown 

Crept  over  vales  and  rills, 
I  watched  the  dusky  bats  a-wing 

Dip  down  the  dusky  lea; 
Hearkening,  heard  a  maiden  sing : 

"  And  you'll  remember  me." 

"When  other  lips  and  other  hearts," 

Came  drifting  through  the  trees; 
"  In  language  whose  excess  imparts," 

Was  borne  upon  the  breeze. 
Ah !  love  is  sweet  and  hope  is  strong 

And  life's  a  sunny  sea, 
A  woman's  soul  is  in  her  song; 

"And  you'll  remember  me." 

Still  rippling  from  the  throbbing  throat, 

WTith  joy  akin  to  pain, 
There  seemed  a  tear  in  every  note, 

A  sob  in  every  strain; 
Soft  as  the  twilight  shadows  creep 

Across  the  listless  lea, 
The  singer  sang  her  love  to  sleep 

With,  "You'll  remember  me." 


[53] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


MY  LITTLE  LOVE 

My  little  love,  the  livelong  day 

I've  waited,  toiled  and  dreamed 
And  wondered  if  I'd  meet  you  here, 

And,  sweet,  at  times  it  seemed 
That  all  my  life's  light  would  go  out 

Into  a  waste  so  drear, 
If,  when  the  shadows  fell  about, 

I  failed  to  find  you  here. 

Ah,  surely  there's  a  lesson 

To  be  learned  in  love  like  this; 
Naught,  save  the  hand  of  heaven, 

Dear,  could  bring  such  boundless  bliss. 
Not  that  I  love  my  Maker  less; 

His  world  is  made  more  bright 
When  I  can  feel  your  fond  caress 

As  we  sit  here  to-night. 


[54] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


NATURE  SONGS 

Tyrolian  tomcat,  every  time 

You  scale  an  icy  wall, 
Know  that  the  higher  up  you  climb 

The  further  you  may  fall. 

And  you,  O  summer  birds,  who  wing 
The  air  the  summer  long, 

Know  that  the  merrier  you  sing 
The  more  we'll  miss  your  song. 


HOSS  SENSE 

When  the  pheasant  stops  his  drumming, 
When  the  autumn's  cyclone's  coming, 

When  the  gaunt  gray  wolf  of  winter  is  let  loose 
In  the  Injin  Summer :  Sonny, 
Wouldn't  you  give  ready  money 

For  the  wings  and  for  the  wisdom  of  a  goose? 

When  the  hoss  that  you  are  riding 
Smells  the  cinnamon  in  hiding, 

When  he  wheels  and  snorts  and  gives  his  head 

a  toss, 

When  he  tries  so  hard  to  tell  you 
That  the  cinnamon  can  smell  you  - 

Don't  you  wish  you  had  the  hoss  sense  of  a  hoss? 

[55] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


AN  ANTIQUE  LOVE  SONG 

My  lady  fair,  with  eyes  and  hair, 

And  things  to  write  about, 
Elected  to  play  I  was  going  astray, 

She  wanted  to  try  me  out,  out,  out ; 

She  wanted  to  try  me  out. 

"Our  love  is  dead,"  my  lady  said, 

And  toyed  with  her  hands  and  sighed, 

Yet  I  knew  that  she  knew  that  my  heart  was  true 
And  the  beautiful  lady  lied,  lied,  lied; 
And  the  beautiful  lady  lied. 

"  The  heart  of  gold  will  not  grow  cold, 

Nor  tire  with  time,"  I  said, 
"  And  the  love  that  is  sure  will  ever  endure ; 

Nay,  darling,  our  love  is  not  dead,  dead, 
dead, 

Nay,  darling,  our  love's  not  dead." 

"  The  love  that's  right  will  still  burn  bright, 
Tho;  the  morning  stars  grow  pale, 

And  the  lover  that's  true  will  sorrow  with  you, 
And  go  singing  with  you  to  jail,  jail,  jail, 
And  go  singing  with  you  to  jail." 


[56] 


LOVE  AMONG  THE  MOUNTAINS 

In  a  sequestered  spot  my  love  and  I, 

Hand  clasped  in  hand,  stood  dreaming  love's 
sweet  dream, 

Watched  from  the  craggy  cliff  the  eagle  fly, 
And  heard  the  far  off  murmur  of  the  stream. 

Ah!  Happy  soul  in  solitude  that  sips 

From  this  grand  cup  of  Nature  sent  from 
heaven  - 

"But  I,"  said  I,  "from  your  red  rosy  lips, 
Quaff  sweetest  sweets  by  God  or  nature  given. 

"Hush,   Hush!"    she   said,   and   dropped   her 

dusky  head, 
"Who  knows  what  eyes  are  turned  upon  us 

here?" 
"  The  angels  see,  and  say  not  that  it's  wrong,"  I 

said, 
And  from  her  drooping  lashes  kissed  a  tear. 


[57] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


NON  COMMITTAL 

"  Who  made  the  rose  on  the  rose  bush?" 

"  God  made  the  red  rose  tree 
And  the  lilies  fair,  in  the  garden  there/' 

The  little  girl  answered  me. 

"  Who  made  the  thorn  on  the  rose  bush?" 

The  little  girl  hung  her  head 
With  a  troubled  frown  and  eyes  cast  down, 

"  Well  —  God  made  the  rose,"  she  said. 

"Who  made  the  sands  at  the  seaside?" 
"  God  made  the  sands  of  the  sea, 

And  the  waters  blue,  and  the  fishes,  too," 
The  little  girl  answered  me. 

"Who  made  the  dudes  at  the  seaside?" 

The  little  girl  raised  her  head 
With  the  faintest  smile  on  her  face  the  while 

"  Well  —  God  made  the  sands,"  she  said. 


[58] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARM  AN 


MOTHER  AND  I 

I  laugh  when  I  list  to  the  stories  they  tell 

Of  how  I  was  born  one  day; 
And  tied  in  a  towel  to  kick  and  to  yell, 

And  show  them  how  much  I  could  weigh. 
And  when  they  had  finished  and  I'd  ceased  to  cry, 

While  placidly  chewing  my  thumb, 
We  pressed  the  same  pillow,  —  mother  and  I, 

And  softly  she  started  to  hum : 

"  Rock-a-by-baby,  on  the  tree  top, 
When  the  wind  blows  the  cradle  will  rock ; 
When  the  bough  breaks  the  cradle  will  fall, 
Down  will  come  baby,  cradle  and  all." 

Sometimes,  when  I  think  of  the  days  that  are 
dead, 

And  the  joy  of  my  youthful  years  - 
Years  that  have  rippled  and  gleamed  and  sped 

With  the  tide  down  the  ocean  of  tears ; 
I  remember  at  eve  when  the  day  would  die 

And  the  twilight  shadows  had  come, 
How  we  sat  together  —  mother  and  I, 

And  softly  I  started  to  hum : 

"  Hush  little  mother,  rest  in  my  love, 
None  love  you  better  except  God  above; 
Hush  little  mother,  so  loving  and  mild, 
I'll  be  the  mother  now,  you  be  the  child." 

[591 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARM  AN 


When  together  we  sat  in  the  gloaming  again 

In  a  faint  and  a  feeble  breath 
Was  wafted  a  song  from  over  the  fen  - 

From  the  valley  and  shadow  of  death; 
'Twas  the  echo  that  came  from  the  sweet  by-and- 

by, 

And  the  voices  were  whispering  ,"  Come." 
We  caught  up  the  chorus  —  mother  and  I, 
And  softly  we  started  to  hum : 

"  Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee,  nearer  to  Thee, 
E'en  though  it  be  a  cross  that  raiseth  me." 


[60] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


AN'  DE  WATAHMELON'S  RIPEN'  ALL 
AROUN' 

I  heah  a  noisy  katydid  a-shoutin'  up  a  tree, 

An'  de  watahmelon's  ripen'  all  aroun'. 
He  orter  be  a  sleepin'  like  de  honey  bee, 

Wen  de  watahmelon's  ripen'  all  aroun'. 
I  heah  de  lonesome  whistle  ob  de  whippoorwill, 
De  big,  roun'  moon's  a  fallin'  down  ahind  de  hill, 
And  de  hoot  owl's  a-hootin'  on  de  ol'  cane  mill; 
An'  de  watahmelon's  ripen'  all  aroun'. 

De  possum  an'  de  raccoon  am  a-settin'  on  a  rail, 

An'  de  'simmons  am  a-ripen'  all  aroun' ; 
De  raccoon  pow'ful  haughty  'cause  he  got  a 

han'some  tail, 

An'  de  'simmons  am  a-ripen'  all  aroun'. 
Den  de  possum  clim'  de  'simmon,  frap  his  tail 

aroun'  a  lim', 
An'  he  shout  down  to  de  raccoon,  still  a-starin' 

up  at  him : 
"  Wen  you  want  ter  shake  a  'simmon  tree  Pm 

yo'  Jim; 
An'  de  'simmons  am  a-fallin'  all  aroun'. 

De  win'  ain't  mo'  an'  whispin'  in  de  shaddeh  ob 

de  hill, 
An'  de  blue  grapes  a-ripen'  all  aroun'. 


[611 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


A  nigger  wid  a  milk  can  am  a-usin'  roun'  de  still, 

For  de  liquah  am  a-leakin'  on  de  groun'. 
De  mohnin'  sta'  am  shinin'  fo'  de  brokin'  ob  de 

day. 
Good  mohnin',  mistah  red  fox,  yo'  ain't  got  long 

to  stay, 
Dan's  a  muffled-footed  niggah  gwin'  ter  chase  de 

fox  away, 
Fer  de  chickens  am  a-roos'in'  all  aroun'. 


BECAUSE  WE  LOVE 

Dear  heart  of  mine,  since  we  were  wed, 
The  second  summer  now  is  here, 
And  love  grows  stronger  every  year. 

We  are  so  happy,  sweet,  I  said; 

Why  is  it?    And  she  answered  low, 
"Because  we  love  each  other  so." 

Oft  have  I  heard  the  moaning  dove 

Call  her  lost  mate  from  out  the  wood; 
She  suffered,  felt,  and  understood; 

For  she  was  filled  with  grief  and  love. 
Such  sorrow  may  we  never  know, 
Because  we  love  each  other  so. 


[62] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


I've  a  secret  in  my  heart,  sweet  Marie, 
A  tale  I  would  impart,  love,  to  thee; 
Every  daisy  in  the  dell 
Knows  my  secret,  knows  it  well, 
And  yet  I  dare  not  tell,  sweet  Marie. 

When  I  hold  your  hand  in  mine,  sweet  Marie, 

A  feeling  most  divine  comes  to  me; 
All  the  world  is  full  of  spring, 
Full  of  warblers  on  the  wing, 

And  I  listen  while  they  sing,  sweet  Marie. 

In  the  morn  when  I  awake,  sweet  Marie, 
Seems  to  me  my  heart  will  break,  love,  for  thee, 
Every  wave  that  shakes  the  shore, 
Seems  to  sing  it  o'er  and  o'er, 
Seems  to  say  that  I  adore  sweet  Marie. 

When  the  sunset  tints  the  west,  sweet  Marie, 
And  I  sit  down  to  rest,  love,  with  thee ; 
All  the  stars  that  stud  the  sky 
Seem  to  stand  and  wonder  why 
They're  so  dimmer  than  your  eye,  sweet  Marie. 

Not  the  sunglints  in  your  hair,  sweet  Marie, 
Not  because  your  face  is  fair,  love,  to  see; 
But  your  soul  so  pure  and  sweet, 
Makes  my  happiness  complete, 
Makes  me  falter  at  your  feet,  sweet  Marie. 

[63] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARM  AN 


THE  CONVENT 

What  is  there  here,  what  can  there  be 
That  makes  this  drear  old  nunnery 
So  strangely,  sweetly  dear  to  me? 

Down  these  old  aisles  the  children  pass, 

At  early  morn,  to  early  mass 

To  make  them  ready  for  the  class. 

I  pause  in  every  quaint  retreat 

And  muse  and  say,  "  Here  oft  my  sweet 

Has  been;  these  floors  have  felt  her  feet.' 

And  so  it's  all  made  plain;  I  see 
What  makes  this  drear  old  nunnery 
So  strangely,  sweetly  dear  to  me. 


[64] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


SONG  OF  A  SOUND  SAILOR 

First  we  call  at  Bella  Bella  where  they  educate 

the  reds, 
Where  they  learn  to  wear  a  Merry  Widow 

chapeau  on  their  heads, 

Where  the  hardy  husky  huskies  lie  asleep  be- 
neath their  sleds, 

But  me  heart  is  with  me  klutch  at  Kitsum- 
Kaylum. 

There's  a  maid  at  Metlakatla,  holy  city  of  the 
sea, 

And  she  says  she  hopes  for  heaven,  but  she  al- 
ways looks  for  me. 

She's  been  maudlin  at  the  Mission  where  she's 

learned  to  say,  "Tis  he," 
But  she  doesn't  know  my  klutch  at  Kitsum- 
Kaylum. 

There's  a  woman  waiting  always  on  the  wharf 
at  Essington, 

There's  a  paleface  at  Prince  Rupert  who  ad- 
dresses me,  "me  man/' 

And  I'm  always  t'rowing  kisses  at  the  kid  at 

Katchikan, 

But  you  ought  to  see  me  klutch  at  Kitsum- 
Kaylum. 


[65] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


In  me  youth  I  used  to  reckon  every  female  was 

a  flirt, 
And  I've  heard  a  sailor  call  his  'Kaylum  k'utch 

his  "  Sunday  skirt/' 
But  everything  is  different  with  me  since  I  was 

hurt, 
An'  me  heart  is  with  me  klutch  at  Kitsum- 

Kaylum. 

Now,  good-by,  good-by,  old  Ocean,  I  am  goin' 

to  shake  the  sea; 
Just  a  little  farm  and  fireside  in  the  Skeena  vale 

for  me, 

And  I'll  rest  me  in  the  bosom  of  me  little  famillee. 
I  am  camping  with  me  klutch  at   Kitsum- 

Kaylum. 


[66] 


Thoughtful  Rhymes 


WILL  THE  LIGHTS  BE  WHITE? 

Oft,  when  I  feel  my  engine  swerve, 

As  o'er  strange  rails  we  fare, 
I  strain  my  eye  around  the  curve 

For  what  awaits  us  there. 
When  swift  and  free  she  carries  me 

Through  yards  unknown  at  night, 
I  look  along  the  line  to  see 

That  all  the  lamps  are  white. 

The  blue  light  marks  the  crippled  car, 

The  green  light  signals  slow ; 
The  red  light  is  a  danger  light, 

The  white  light,  "  Let  her  go." 
Again  the  open  fields  we  roam, 

And,  when  the  night  is  fair, 
I  look  up  in  the  starry  dome 

And  wonder  what's  up  there. 

For  who  can  speak  for  those  who  dwell 

Behind  the  curving  sky  ? 
No  man  has  ever  lived  to  tell 

Just  what  it  means  to  die. 
Swift  toward  life's  terminal  I  trend, 

The  run  seems  short  to-night ; 
God  only,  knows  what's  at  the  end— 

I  hope  the  lamps  are  white. 


[69] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


ALASKA 

% 

Three  sleeps  in  a  sleeper  from  Montreal, 

And  a  moon  or  so  from  the  end  of  the  line, 
And  you  stand  at  the  foot  of  the  great  white 

wall- 

That  is  white  with  the  snows  that  fall,  and  fall, 
O'er  the  cedar  dwarfed  and  the  drooping  pine 
That  grow  at  the  feet  of  Alaska. 

Old  and  wrinkled  and  cold  and  gray, 

With  her  white  pall  pulled  o'er  her  stony  breast ; 
Frowning  and  frigid  and  far  away, 
She  has  ever  stood,  as  she  stands  to-day, 
In  the  desolate  wastes  of  the  wide  Northwest- 
Stands  this  hoary  old  woman  —  Alaska. 

Unmolested  for  thousands  of  years, 

Isolated,  remote  and  lone; 
Her  hard  face  glacial  with  frozen  tears, 
While  over  her  shoulders  and  in  her  ears 

The  winds  of  the  North  Land  wail  and  moan, 
In  the  ears  of  old  Mother  Alaska. 

A  party  of  prospectors  passed  that  way, 

And  they  thought  the  old  face  had  forgotten 

its  frown, 

And,  pausing,  they  pulled  her  white  robe  away 
And  found  her  treasure:  "Ah,  q'est  que  c'est?" 
Said  the  French  Canadian,  kneeling  down 
At  the  feet  of  old  Mother  Alaska. 

[70] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


They  told  their  story,  and  men  went  wild, 

And  pawned  their  chattels  and  joined  the  race. 
The  old  croon  jingled  her  gold  and  smiled, 
And  the  gold-mad  men  of  the  world  beguiled 
With  a  promise  of  fortune  in  that  far  place, 
At  the  feet  of  old  Mother  Alaska. 

But  Oh,  the  rivers  are  wide  and  deep, 

And  the  north  wind  breathes  with  a  killing 

breath ; 

And  over  the  mountains  so  rough  and  steep 
The  old  dread  reaper  shall  come  and  reap ; 
The  rime  old  reaper  that  men  call  Death 
Shall  reap  the  white  fields  of  Alaska. 


THIS  LIFE  IS  GOOD 

When  meads  and  glades  and  everything 

Put  on  their  sunny  robe  of  spring  - 
When  fragrant  flowers  scent  the  air 
And  birds  make  music  everywhere, 

I  say,  while  wandering  in  the  wood, 

This  life  is  good. 

When  roses  rest  in  Winter's  tomb, 

And  all  the  earth  is  garbed  in  gloom, 
At  eventide  about  the  hearth 
I  sit,  and  say,  despite  the  dearth, 

Of  sun  and  sunset  down  the  wood, 

This  life  is  good. 

[71] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


Canst  picture,  said  a  friend  to  me, 
The  joy  of  what  is  yet  to  be? 
Canst  thou  describe  eternity? 

Dost  thou  believe  that  when  we  take 
That  last,  long  sleep,  a  day  shall  break 
The  dreamless  night?     Shall  we  awake? 

Tell  me,  with  reason  in  thy  rhyme, 
Dost  think  there'll  be  no  end  of  time, 
Nor  end  of  bliss,  in  that  blest  clime? 

I  do  not  know,  for  sure,  I  said, 

I  know  not  those  whose  light  feet  tread 

Yon  shore;  I  know  the  dead  are  dead. 

I've  seen  the  summer  birds  take  wing, 
When  winter  came,  and  in  the  spring 
Come  back  again,  to  soar  and  sing. 

I've  seen  the  red  rose  in  the  glen. 

Hid  'neath  the  hoar  frost,  die,  and  then 

In  brighter  hours,  bloom  again. 

I've  seen  the  soul,  freed  from  the  clay 
That  held  it  here,  reach  far  away, 
Take  up  its  harp  and  start  to  play. 
[72] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


I've  seen  a  mother  die,  and  she, 
When  came  to  her  what  must  to  me, 
Looked  smiling  toward  eternity. 

And  I  can  see  while  roses  bloom 

Where  roses  fade  through  life's  long  gloom, 

A  gleam  of  hope  beyond  the  tomb. 

But  whatsoe'er  the  future  be, 
If  there's  a  life  for  you  and  me, 
To  last  through  all  eternity, 

'Twere  well  to  keep  this  point  in  view: 

Do  UNTO  MAN,  THY  WHOLE  LIFE  THROUGH, 
As  THOU  WOULDST  HAVE  HIM  DO  TO  YOU. 

And  then  when  thou  art  o'er  the  range, 
Where  all  are  good,  though  many  strange, 
Thou  may'st  not  feel  too  great  the  change. 


[731 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


"ALL'S  WELL  WITH  THE  WORLD" 

I 

"  O,  God,  send  down  the  rain, 
The  earth  is  parched  and  dry, 
The  roses  die!" 

With  faces  'gainst  the  pane 
The  people  cry. 

Upon  the  quivering  air 

Spent  birds  on  weary  wing 

Keep  winnowing, 
Because  they  have  not  where 

To  rest  or  sing. 

Far  in  the  north,  a  low 

Deep  rumbling ;  a  lightning  chain 

Lights  up  the  plain, 
God's  lights  are  off;  and  so 

God  sends  the  rain. 


II 


"  O,  God !    Keep  off  the  rain 
A  little  while.     Behold 
A  sea  of  gold, 

Of  wimpling,  golden  grain, 
Thy  wrath  withhold." 


[74] 


"0,  God!  withhold  the  hail/' 
The  anxious  people  prayed, 
All  sore  afraid, 

While  o'er  the  prairie  trail 
The  lightning  played. 

So,  through  the  long,  long  night 
With  prayer  the  storm  they  staved, 
The  full  heads  waved. 

Then  God  switched  on  the  light  - 
The  crops  were  saved. 


THE  HARVEST 

I'm  satisfied  we're  stratified, 

And  dwell  upon  a  certain  plane, 
Souls  meet  and  part,  and  meet  again; 

No  soul  that  ever  lived  has  died. 

We  plant  and  reap  as  on  we  go, 

We  sow  in  smiles,  sometimes  in  tears, 
To  reap  in  kind  in  after  years  ; 

We  reap  precisely  as  we  sow. 

All  things  are  ordered ;  and  in  fine, 
We  take  our  winnings  on  the  way, 
From  year  to  year,  from  day  to  day; 

And  you  get  yours,  and  I  get  mine. 

[75] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


THE  RISE  AND  FALL  OF  CREEDE 

A  thousand  burdened  burros  filled 
The  narrow,  winding,  wriggling  trail. 

A  hundred  settlers  came  to  build, 
Each  day,  new  houses  in  the  vale. 

A  hundred  gamblers  came  to  feed 

On  these  same  settlers  —  this  was  Creede. 

Slanting  Annie,  Gambler  Joe 

And  bad  Bob  Ford,  Sapolio,  - 
Or  Soapy  Smith,  as  he  was  known,  - 

Ran  games  peculiarly  their  own, 
And  everything  was  open  wide, 

And  men  drank  absinthe  on  the  side. 


And  now  the  Faro  Bank  is  closed, 

And  Mr.  Faro's  gone  away 
To  seek  new  fields,  it  is  supposed,  - 

More  verdant  fields.     The  gamblers  say 
The  man  who  worked  the  shell  and  ball 

Has  gone  back  to  the  Capitol. 

The  winter  winds  blow  bleak  and  chill, 
The  quaking,  quivering  aspen  waves 

About  the  summit  of  the  hill  - 
Above  the  unrecorded  graves 

Where  halt  abandoned  burros  feed 
And  coyotes  call  —  and  this  is  Creede. 

[76] 


Lone  graves  whose  head-boards  bear  no  name, 
Whose  silent  owners  lived  like  brutes 

And  died  as  doggedly,  —  but  game, 
And  most  of  them  died  in  their  boots. 

We  mind  among  the  unwrit  names 
The  man  who  murdered  Jesse  James. 

We  saw  him  murdered,  saw  him  fall, 

And  saw  his  mad  assassin  gloat 
Above  him.     Heard  his  moans  and  all, 

And  saw  the  shot  holes  in  his  throat, 
And  men  moved  on  and  gave  no  heed 

To  life  or  death  —  and  this  is  Creede. 


[77] 


THE  SOUL  OF  THE  SASKATCHEWAN 

The  lifeblood  of  old  Egypt  courses  with  the 

muddy  Nile, 
The  Czar  sleeps  with  his  faith  in  men  who 

guard  the  empty  street ; 
The  peace  of  many  nations  rests  behind  a  thin, 

red  file; 

But  the  soul  of  the  Saskatchewan's  a  little 
grain  of  wheat. 

The  thin  red  line  may  riot,  where  but  lately  it 

salaamed, 
The  sentinel  may  slumber,  and  a  mob  possess 

the  street; 
Old  Egypt  may  know  famine  and  the  muddy 

Nile  be  dammed, 

But  the  soul  of  the  Saskatchewan  remains,  a 
grain  of  wheat. 

Let  nation  banter  nation  with  their  battle-flags 

unfurled, 
The  State  may  stand  secure  a  space  behind  a 

frowning  fleet  ; 
God's   sunshine   on   Saskatchewan!    her   fields 

shall  feed  the  world, 

For  the  soul  of  the  Saskatchewan's  a  little 
grain  of  wheat. 


[78] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WAR  MAN 


THE  BULL  TEAM 

The  sturdy  bull,  with  stately  tread, 
Submissive,  silent,  bows  his  head 
And  feels  the  yoke ;  the  creaking  wain 
Rolls  leisurely  across  the  plain; 
Across  the  trackless,  treeless  land, 
An  undulating  sea  of  sand, 
Where  mocking,  sapless  rivers  run; 
With  swollen  tongue  and  bloodshot  eye, 
Still  on  to  where  the  shadows  lie, 
And  onward  toward  the  setting  sun. 

With  tearful  eyes  he  looks  away 

To  where  his  free-born  brothers  play 

Upon  the  prairie  wild  and  wide; 

He  turns  his  head  from  side  to  side; 

He  feels  the  bull  whip's  cruel  stroke; 

Again  he  leans  against  the  yoke. 

At  last  his  weary  walk  is  done. 
He  pauses  at  the  river's  brink, 
And  drinks  the  while  his  drivers  drink, 

Almost  beside  the  setting  sun. 


[79] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


THE  WRECK  AT  CABAZA 

When  Engineer  West  saw  the  danger  he  reversed  his  engine  and 
set  the  air  brake ;  and  thus,  in  his  last  moment  on  earth,  saved 
many  lives. —  Press  Despatch. 

At  home,  abroad,  beyond  the  sea, 
When  over  seas  I  chance  to  roam, 

These  sad,  sad  stories  come  to  me 
Of  old-time  friends  I  knew  at  home ; 

So  that,  where'er  I  voyage,  I 

Know  what  they  do  and  how  they  die. 

The  driver  saw  —  the  wires  so  say  - 
The  open  switch :  with  his  last  breath 

Alarmed  his  mate,  and  stayed,  that  they 
Who  filled  the  train  might  not  see  death. 

There  was  the  river,  hard  ahead : 

Himself  and  mate  made  up  the  dead. 

They  die  not  with  averted  face; 

For  such  their  friends  have  not  to  blush. 
When  the  dread  reaper  comes  apace 

They  fall  like  heroes.     In  the  hush 
Go  search  the  wreck,  you'll  find  them  pale 
In  death,  and  not  far  from  the  rail. 


[80] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


TWO  SOLDIERS 

"  Now,"  said  the  one-armed  soldier, 

"  I'll  tell  you  e'er  I  go, 
About  the  Border  Brothers, 

Twin  brothers  of  St.  Joe. 

"  One  did  things  on  the  desert, 
Amid  the  dust  and  drought, 

The  other  took  his  musket, 

And  soldiered  at  the  South. 

"  One  looked  along  a  transit, 

And  trailed  a  tape  of  steel; 
One  squinted  o'er  a  cannon 

That  made  the  rebels  reel. 

"  While  one  was  puffing,  snuffing, 

Away  the  vital  spark, 
The  other  kept  his  vigil 

Where  Sioux  scalped  in  the  dark, 

"  While  one  was  routing  rebels 

Where  the  white  Potomac  foams, 

One  chisled  out  an  Empire 

That  holds  a  million  homes. 

*         *         * 

"  One  sleeps  in  the  Sierros 

Beneath  a  shroud  of  snow, 

[81] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


One  sleeps  beneath  a  statue  - 
Equestrian  in  St.  Joe. 

"  While  one  was  making  widows 
The  other  made  the  West ; 

Now,  children,  choose  your  hero. 
Which  soldier  battle  lost?" 


SANGRE  DE  CHRISTO 

Sangre  de  Christo,  let  me  trace 
The  beauties  of  thy  furrowed  face, 

While  soft  the  perfumed  summer  breeze 

Makes  music  in  thine  arboles; 
And,  as  I  look,  thine  every  peak 
To  me,  in  silence  seems  to  speak ; 

Sangre  —  the  blood  that  flowed  so  free; 

Christo  —  the  Christ  on  Calvary. 

I  see  upon  thy  riven  side 

Great  rifts  through  which  the  rivers  flow; 
And  they  tell,  too,  how  Jesus  died, 

As  down  to  seek  the  sea  they  go ; 
And  through  the  verdant  vale  they  sing 
The  praises  of  the  Risen  King. 

Sangre  —  the  blood  that  flowed  so  free; 

Christo  —  the  Christ  on  Calvary. 
[82] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARM  AN 


THERE  IS  NO  DEATH 

There  is  no  death ! 

The  flowers  bloom ; 

Their  sweet  perfume 
Floats  o'er  the  night  - 
The  hills  are  white. 

The  summer  birds  have  sped  away, 

The  summer  days  are  dead,  they  say, 
But  when  the  spring  comes  back,  the  wren 
Sings  sweet,  the  flowers  bloom  again. 

There  is  no  death ! 

We  fall  asleep 

And  wake  to  weep, 

Youth's  happy  springtime  wears  away, 
With  voices  weak,  our  hair  grows  gray; 

But  after  that  last  sleep,  ah,  then, 

We  know  that  man  must  live  again. 
There  is  no  death ! 


[83] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARM  AN 


UNDER  THE  WILLOWS 

Here  I  used  to  sit  and  listen  for  the  patter  of  her 

feet, 

For  the  tiny  hands  to  pound  upon  the  door ; 
But  the  icy  hand  of  death  has  touched  the  fore- 
head of  my  sweet, 
And  the  baby  voice  is  hushed  forevermore. 

Angels  keep  my  baby, 

Where  the  willows  wave; 

Where  with  each  recurring  spring 
Feathered  warblers  come  and  sing, 

When  the  violets  are  blooming  o'er  her  grave. 

To  a  quiet  western  woodland  now  my  memory 

sadly  turns, 
Where  the  summer  wild  rose  scents  the  silent 

gloom, 
Where  a  busy  little  brook  is  singing  softly  in  the 

ferns, 

And  the  willow  boughs  are  bending  o'er  her 
tomb. 

Angels  keep  my  baby, 
Where  the  willows  wave; 

Where  the  low  winds  sob  and  sigh, 

When  the  summer  roses  die, 
And  the  autumn  leaves  are  falling  on  her  grave. 
[84] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


Only  now  I  slept  and  dreamed  that  I  was  kneel- 
ing there  to-night, 

Where  my  little  one  is  sleeping  on  the  hill ; 
Even  now,  when  I'm  awake,  and  the  tears  fall  as 

I  write, 
I  can  seem  to  hear  the  music  of  the  rill. 

Angels  keep  my  baby, 

Where  the  willows  wave; 

Where  the  winds  blow  bleak  and  drear 
When  the  silent  woodland's  sear, 

And  the  snow  is  drifting  deep  upon  her  grave. 


[85] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


LITTLE  THERESA,  THE  WAIF 

To  a  place  where  the  poor  of  the  city, 

The  shoeblacks  and  news  children  meet, 
A  fairy  waif  came  with  a  banjo, 

And  a  voice,  oh,  so  soothing  and  sweet, 
That  it  brought  back  the  scent  of  the  summer 

With  orange-trees  blooming  above, 
And  mocking-birds  in  the  magnolias, 

As  soft  as  the  song  of  a  dove. 

With  holes  in  her  sleeves  and  her  stockings, 

Torn  shoes  on  her  little  brown  feet, 
Eyes  like  limpid  pools  in  the  mountains  - 

Her  hair  was  like  ripening  wheat. 
When  she  came  out  again  —  the  Infanta 

Joanna,  bejewelled  and  gay  - 
My  friend  laughed :  "  I  say,  vot  you  cry  for? 

She  vas  yust  make-belief  in  der  play/' 

She  was  beautiful  then,  as  a  picture 

Is  beautiful  —  only  to  see ; 
But  she  never  can  be  so  enchanting 

As  the  little  tramp  singer  to  me. 
I  know  you  will  say  it  is  better, 

For  in  luxury's  lap  she  is  safe ; 
If  I  could,  though,  I  would  not  forget  her 

As  little  Theresa,  the  Waif. 


[86] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


MY  FRIEND  — THE  PROSPECTOR 

If  I  were  to  write  for  the  papers  to  print, 

What  here  I  indite,  I  opine 
That  my  critics  would  say  it  was  written  that 
way 

For  so  many  dollars  a  line. 
And  so,  with  the  view  that  I'm  writing  to  you, 

Where  no  critic's  lances  are  hurled, 
I'll  touch  the  taut  string  of  my  lyre  and  sing 

Of  the  best-hearted  man  in  the  world. 

Hark  back  to  the  prospect  in  Poverty  Gulch, 

Before  you  found  dirt  that  would  pay, 
When  the  hope  in  your  breast,  like  the  gold  in 
The  west, 

Burned  brightest  at  close  of  the  day. 
If  I  were  but  rich,  or,  if  you  were  still  poor, 

And  we  sat  where  your  cabin  smoke  curled, 
Then  in  unstinted  lays  I  could  pour  out  the 
praise 

Of  the  best-hearted  man  in  the  world. 


[87] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


IN  THE  TWILIGHT 

My  hands  are  growing  weary, 
While  from  my  setting  sun 

The  gold  is  slowly  fading, 
And  so  much  work  undone. 

Now  every  passing  moment 
Some  task  unfinished  brings 

To  hands  grown  weary  doing 
So  many  useless  things. 

My  feet  are  also  weary : 

The  ways  they  walk  are  hard, 

The  thorns  have  held  and  hurt  them, 
The  stones  have  left  them  scarred. 

Here,  in  the  gathering  twilight, 
They  falter  now  and  fail, 

Poor  feet  that  stray  so  far  from 
The  straight  and  narrow  trail. 

Away  off  in  a  canon 

I  hear  a  lost  sheep  cry, 
And  on  the  perfect  pathway 

See  happy  souls  go  by. 

But,  Oh !    My  soul  is  weary 

As  wearily  I  plod, 
And  all  because  I've  wandered 

So  far  away  from  God. 

[88] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARM  AN 


WHERE  WOMEN  DON'T  GO 

The  flowers  that  bloom  in  the  springtime, 
And  make  the  dull  world  seem  so  gay, 

Have  never  a  thought  in  the  meantime 
That  bloom  bringeth  blight  and  decay. 

The  glad  bird  that  sings  by  the  river, 

Smiling  up  at  the  blue  opal  sky, 
Never  dreams  in  its  joy  that  the  giver 

Of  Song  has  adjudged  it  to  die. 

The  brooklet  that  babbles  and  blushes, 
And  gladdens  the  glen  with  its  glee, 

Knoweth  not  that  it  wilfully  rushes 
To  the  silent,  sad  shores  of  the  sea. 

But  man,  while  in  youth's  happy  morning, 
When  the  world  seems  so  sunny  and  bright, 

In  the  song  of  each  bird  hears  a  warning, 
And  the  brooklets  are  whispering,  "Night." 

For  Time  follows  closely  behind  him, 
And  hurries  him,  half  out  of  breath, 

And  the  gathering  gloaming  will  find  him 
In  the  valley  and  shadow  of  death. 

Of  course,  we  have  heard  the  old  story, 
That  down  the  dim  vista  of  years, 

[89] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


A  woman  took  gladness  and  glory 
And  sold  it  for  sorrow  and  tears. 

But  if  woman  has  brought  all  this  sorrow, 
And  filled  this  wide  world  full  of  woe, 

I  would  not  exchange  it  to-morrow 
For  a  heaven  where  women  don't  go. 


WE  NEVER  KNOW 

We  never  know  the  joy  of  it 
'Till  love  is  turned  to  hate, 

Nor  heed  the  crimes  that  we  commit 
Until  it  is  too  late. 

We  never  need  the  sun  so  much 
As  when  it  has  gone  down; 

Nor  know  the  bliss  that's  in  a  kiss 
'Till  we  have  felt  a  frown. 

The  empty  arms  when  loved  ones  part, 

From  being  idle,  ache; 
We  never  know  we  have  a  heart 

'Till  it  begins  to  break. 


[90] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


GOD  IS  LOVE 

When  they  pressed  the  desert  sand, 

Love  was  there. 
Joseph  holding  Mary's  hand, 

Love  was  there. 
In  the  hovel  where  she  slept, 
Weary,  travel-worn,  she  wept, 
But  the  holy  faith  was  kept  - 

Love  was  there. 

When  he  walked  upon  the  sea, 

Love  was  there ; 
In  the  lone  Gethsemane, 

Love  was  there. 

When  they  put  Him  to  disgrace, 
Mocked  Him  in  a  public  place, 
When  the  rabble  smote  His  face, 

Love  was  there. 

And  He  counted  nothing  loss, 

Love  was  there; 
Though  they  nailed  Him  to  the  cross 

Love  was  there. 

"God  is  love,"  the  Scripture  saith, 
Even  to  His  parting  breath, 
At  the  open  door  of  death, 

Love  was  there. 


[91] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


GIVE  US  THIS  DAY 

"  Give  us  this  day/'  a  mother  prayed, 
And  knelt  upon  a  naked  floor, 
"  O  God,  from  out  thy  plenteous  store, 

Give  us  this  day  our  daily  bread. 

"  I  know  that  Thou  wilt  find  the  way  - 
Thou  who  hast  fed  the  multitude  - 
For  Thou  art  God,  and  God  is  good; 

Give  us  our  daily  bread  this  day. 

"  'Tis  true  a  legion  lips  have  said 
This  prayer  for  many,  many  weeks ; 
But  lo !  at  last  a  nation  speaks, 

Give  us  this  day  our  daily  bread." 


[92] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


WAITING  FOR  THE  WILD  GOOSE 

In  the  shelter  of  my  wigwam  I  am  waiting  for 

the  spring, 

For  the  forest  flowers  to  blossom  in  the  vale : 
I  am  watching  from  my  wigwam  for  the  wild 

goose  on  the  wing, 

When  Fll  gather  up  my  traps  and  hit  the  trail 
To  the  Highlands  of  Ontario,  in  the  merry  berry- 
moon, 

To  the  haunts  of  Hiawatha  that  are  nigh ; 
To  the  banks  of  Athabaska,  where  it's  always 

afternoon  - 
0,  I  wonder  when  the  wild  goose  will  go  by? 

While  the  first  black  crow  is  calling  in  the  dawn- 
ing down  the  dell, 

I  am  dreaming  of  the  summer ;  in  my  dream 
I  can  hear  the  Mudjekeewis  sighing  softly;  I  can 

smell 

A  wild  rose  blooming  near  a  northern  stream ; 
I  am  skirting  Nova  Scotia,  that  is  gaily  garbed 

in  green, 

With  the  cool  Atlantic  billows  breakin'  high, 
Or  I  sit  and  sigh  where  Gabriel  kissed  his  fair 

Evangeline  - 
I  wonder  when  the  wild  goose  will  go  by? 

Then  away  to  Western  Canada  —  big  fish  on  the 
line, 

[93] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


A  quaking  aspen  quivering  in  the  breeze ; 
Again  good  Mudjekeewis  comes  a-crooning 

through  the  pine, 

And  blows  my  little  bark  o'er  Lake  Louise. 
Won't  you  come  and  camp  in  Canada?     It's  not 

all  snow  and  ice 

(I  thought  I  saw  a  shadow  from  the  sky)  - 
It's  the  only  Unstaked  Empire  —  the  Camper's 

Paradise  - 
Adois !  —  I  see  a  wild  goose  going  by. 


TRANSPORTATION 

If  all  our  cars  were  motor  cars, 

Encumbering  the  land, 
And  shooting  by  like  shooting  stars, 

We'd  have  nowhere  to  stand. 

If  all  our  plains  were  aeroplanes 

Sweeping  the  curving  sky, 
The  railroads  might  side-track  their  trains, 

And  put  on  wings  and  fly. 

In  many  ways,  in  many  things, 

God's  wisdom  he  reveals; 
To  some  men  he  hath  given  wings, 

And  others  —  they  have  wheels. 
[94] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


TO-MORROW 

To-morrow!    Oh,  To-morrow; 

The  day  that  I  like  best; 
For  though  my  sunset's  clouded 

It's  golden  farther  west. 
Observe  the  little  sparrow 

Throughout  the  dark  To-day, 
She  sings  of  her  To-morrow 

And  th'  egg  she's  going  to  lay. 

I  hear  a  sad  soul  sighing 

To  leave  this  "vale  of  tears" 
But  make  no  doubt  he's  lying 

About  a  hundred  years 
And  feel  no  twinge  of  sorrow 

When  his  ship  puts  to  sea, 
The  ship  that  sails  To-morrow 

Sails  soon  enough  for  me. 

For  tho'  my  sun's  declining 

Behind  yon  hoary  hill, 
I  know  that  it  is  shining 

Beyond  the  summit  still; 
And  howsoe'er  I  sorrow, 

I  know  'twill  pass  away. 
God  gives  a  glad  To-morrow 

For  every  dull  To-day. 


[95] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


"GIVE  ME  NOT  RICHES" 

I  want  to  find  a  place  for  me 

Where  Nature's  harps  are  all  in  tune, 

A  calm,  or  a  still,  on  Life's  rough  sea, 
A  place  where  it's  always  afternoon, 

A  quiet,  peaceful  place  somewhere 

Between  the  tramp  and  the  millionaire. 

Where  it's  not  all  joy  and  not  all  pain; 

Not  too  much  shine,  nor  too  much  shade; 
Just  a  place  to  hide  me  from  the  rain; 

An  easy  place  where  the  rent  is  paid, 
And  not  too  close  to  the  man  of  care, 

And  not  too  far  from  the  millionaire. 


GRIEF 

The  first  great  grief  that  comes  into  a  life 
Falls  heavy  on  the  heart  unused  to  pain; 

But  when  each  day  brings  greater  care  and  strife 
And  life  endures,  we  hope  again. 

Then,   looking  back   to  pain  from  which  we 
shrank, 

To  stony  ways  we  walked  with  bleeding  feet, 
So  bitter  now  the  cup,  that  what  we  drank 

In  other  days,  would  now  seem  sweet. 
[96] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


MEMORIAL  DAY 

Gather  the  garlands  rare  to-day, 

Snow-white  roses  and  roses  red ; 
Gather  the  fairest  flowers  of  May, 
Heap  them  up  on  the  heaps  of  clay, 

Gladden  the  graves  of  the  noble  dead. 

Pile  them  high  as  the  soldiers  were 

Piled  on  the  field  where  they  fought  and  fell; 
They  will  rejoice  in  their  new  place  there 
To-day,  as  they  walk  where  the  fragrant  air 

Is  sweet  with  the  scent  of  the  asphodel. 

Many  a  time,  I  have  heard  it  said, 

They  fell  so  thick  where  the  battles  were, 
Their  hot  blood  rippled,  and  running  red, 
Ran  out  like  a  rill  from  the  drifted  dead 
And  stained  the  heath  and  the  daisies  there. 

This  day  the  friends  of  the  soldier  keep, 

And  they  will  keep  it  through  all  the  years, 
To  the  silent  city  where  soldiers  sleep 
Will  come  with  flowers,  to  stand  and  weep 
And  water  the  garlands  with  their  tears. 


[97] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


THE  STAGE  COACH 

The  long  lash  wimples  and  curves  and  cracks, 
In  a  puff  of  dust,  on  the  nacked  backs 
Of  the  lithesome  leaders  and  the  joyous  load 
Is  whisked  away  down  the  dusty  road 

Where  the  shameless  aspens  shiver,  nude, 
In  the  autumn  winds.     In  the  cabin  rude 
The  lone  prospector  lightly  dreams 
Of  a  pay-streak  hiding  in  the  seams 

Of  the  rifted  rocks.     On  the  very  crest 
Of  these  gnarled  monarchs  of  the  West 
Trends  the  twisting  trail  where  the  laughing  load 
Is  whisked  away  down  the  dusty  road. 

With  fingers  woofed  in  a  warp  of  reins, 
The  driver  shuns  the  heavy  wains, 
With  their  many  mules  with  nodding  ears, 
Like  waving  palms;  our  driver  jeers 

At  the  freighter  with  his  homely  load, 
And  whisks  away  down  the  dusty  road. 


[98] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


THE  CRY  OF  A  SHIPWRECKED  SOUL 

Not  many  men  are  wholly  bad, 

None  altogether  good; 
In  my  brief  life  fine  times  I've  had, 

Yet  half  my  life  I've  rued. 
We're  all  twin-souled,  and  side  by  side, 
Good  Jekyll  walks  with  Mr.  Hyde. 

This  tent,  foredoomed  to  moth  and  mold, 

This  frail  and  fading  frame, 
So  sensitive  to  heat  and  cold 

Yet  dead  to  joy  or  shame, 
Shelters  a  soul,  and  just  inside 
Sits  Jekyll  watching  Mr.  Hyde. 

When  I  look  back  along  life's  way, 

Wherever  I  have  strayed 
Are  mile-posts  gleaming  grim  and  gray  — 

Mistakes  that  I  have  made. 
The  deeds  of  Jekyll  all  forgot 
While  Hydes  remain  to  mark  the  spot. 

By  day  I  walk  the  woodland  green, 

And  come  so  near  to  God 
His  answering  signals  may  be  seen 

In  each  wild  rose's  nod; 
Here,  in  the  town,  at  night  I  ride 
Headlong  for  hell,  my  horse  is  Hyde. 

*        *        * 

[99] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


And  now,  beneath  His  chastening  rod, 
I  wring  my  hands  and  pray: 

"Turn  back  Thy  Universe,  O,  God, 
And  give  me  yesterday." 

Crush  Lust  and  Vanity  and  Pride, 

But  not  too  hard  on  Mr.  Hyde. 

*         *         * 

With  mast  and  compass  blown  away, 
The  winds  howl  o'er  the  deck, 

No  sail  in  sight  —  the  sea  is  gray  - 
I  swim  around  the  wreck. 

O,  ghost  of  Christ,  thou  crucified, 

Have  mercy  on  me  —  Mr.  Hyde. 


[100] 


THE  WIDOWER 

Christmas  eve!    How  many   hearts  are   light 

to-night, 

How  many  happy  homes  are  bright; 
But  to  me  the  world  seems  cruel,  cold  and  drear. 
There's  little  left  in  life  to  cheer  me  here. 
I  wonder  if  in  all  the  years  to  be 
There'll  be  anything  but  clouds  and  tears  for  me? 

Alone  I  walk  the  busy  streets 
And  look  into  each  happy  face  I  meet  ; 
Soul  sick  and  sad  I  turn  away 
And  upon  my  lonely  pillow  my  aching  head  I  lay, 
And  while  the  festive  feasts  go  on 
I  think  of  happy  Christmas  times  that  have 
come  and  gone. 

Here  in  the  silence  and  the  gloom, 

The  solitude  of  my  lonely  room ; 

I  close  my  eyes  and  then  behold 

Her  still,  white  face,  so  calm,  so  cold, 

Just  as  it  looked  to  me  that  day 

When  I  kissed  her  pale,  still  lips  of  lifeless  clay. 


[101] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


THE  ISOLATION  OF  A  CHILD 

I  once  knew  a  dear  little  mother, 

With  a  beautiful,  blue-eyed  boy. 
She  constantly  bathed  and  brushed  him, 

And  when  he  had  tired  of  a  toy 
She  would  take  it  and  scald  it  and  scrap  it, 

And  lay  it  away  in  the  sun, 
And  that  is  the  way  she  took  care  of 

His  playthings,  every  one. 

Pent  up  in  his  own  little  playhouse, 

The  baby  grew  peaked  and  pale, 
And  there  were  the  neighbors'  children 

All  dirty  and  happy  and  hale. 
If  the  baby  went  out  for  an  airing, 

The  nurse  was  to  understand 
That  none  of  the  neighbors'  children 

Was  ever  to  touch  his  hand. 

But  they  did,  and  the  injured  mother 

Brought  the  dear  baby  inside 
And  shut  him  up  in  his  playhouse, 

Where  the  little  one  fretted  and  died. 
Then  the  torn  heart  turned  to  the  Virgin, 

And  this  was  the  weight  of  her  prayer : 
"  Oh,  mother,  dear,  don't  let  him  play  with 

The  other  angels  up  there!" 


[102] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


THE  WEST 

Come,  take  my  hand  and  walk  with  me 
To  where  the  lifting  prairies  lie, 
Close  up  against  the  western  sky, 

The  land  of  Opportunity. 

The  Earth  is  yours !    And  it  is  mine 
To  beacon  you  back  to  the  land, 
To  help  you  find  a  place  to  stand, 

To  plant  a  fig  tree  and  a  vine 

In  God's  good  world.     He  made  the  West ! 
Amid  the  hills  set  sunny  vales, 
And  for  the  Iron  Horse  broke  trails, 

Wrote  "  Finis/'  and  sat  down  to  rest. 


[103] 


THE  CANON  OF  THE  GRAND 

I'm  going  to  paint  a  picture  with  a  pencil  of  my 

own; 
I  shall  have  no  hand  to  help  me,  I  shall  paint  it 

all  alone. 
Oft  I  fancy  it  before  me  and  my  hopeful  heart 

grows  faint, 
As  I  contemplate  the  grandeur  of  the  picture  I 

would  paint. 

When  I  rhyme  about  the  river,  the  laughing, 

limpid  stream, 
Whose  ripples  seem  to  shiver  as  they  glide  and 

glow  and  gleam; 
Of  the  waves  that  beat  the  boulders  that  are 

strewn  upon  the  sand, 
You  will  recognize  the  river  in  the  Canon  of  the 

Grand. 

When  I  write  about  the  mountains,  with  their 

heads  so  high  and  hoar, 
Of  the  cliffs  and  craggy  canons,  where  the  waters 

rush  and  roar, 
When  I  speak  about  the  walls  that  rise  so  high 

on  either  hand, 
You  will  recognize  the  rock-work  in  the  Canon 

of  the  Grand. 

[104] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


God  was  good  to  make  the  mountains,  the  val- 
leys and  the  hills, 

Put  the  rose  upon  the  cactus  and  the  ripple  on 
the  rills; 

But  if  I  had  all  the  words  of  all  the  worlds  at  my 
command, 

I  could  not  paint  a  picture  of  the  Canon  of  the 
Grand. 


IN  MEMORY 

In  memory  of  a  brow  of  snow, 
Of  one  fair  face  I  used  to  know, 
Of  love  that  languished,  long  ago. 

Of  miss-set  signals  and  the  wreck, 
Of  baby  arms  about  my  neck, 
Of  bitter  tears  I  may  not  check. 

In  memory  of  a  golden  band, 
Of  one  who  could  not  understand 
The  empty  clasp  of  her  cold  hand. 


[105] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


SIC  TRANSIT  GLORIA  MUNDI 

A  red  rose  grew  by  the  garden  gate, 
And  sweetly  scented  the  silent  gloom 

When  the  city  slept  —  when  the  hour  was  late, 
The  night  wind  wafted  its  pure  perfume 

Up  to  my  window,  and  o'er  my  bed, 

'Till  I  was  in  love  with  the  rose  so  red. 

But  I  think  now,  perhaps  it's  wrong 
To  love  these  things  that  only  bide 

A  few  brief  days,  with  a  love  so  strong; 
For  folding  its  petals  the  red  rose  died ; 

And  then  I  sorrowed,  and  sighed  and  said : 

"  Life  is  lonely,  my  rose  is  dead." 

And  then,  ere  long,  another  rose 

Bloomed  in  life's  way  —  a  human  flower; 

And  it  brought  to  me  such  sweet  repose, 
And  held  my  heart  with  a  hidden  power, 

And  soothed  my  soul  that  was  worn  with  care, 

'Till  I  was  in  love  with  the  rose  so  rare. 

And  that  fair  flower  that  I  loved  so  long, 
With  a  love  that  was  never  satisfied 

That  I  loved  with  a  love  so  strangely  strong  - 
Folded  its  soft  white  hands  and  died; 

Again  I  sorrowed  and  sighed  and  said; 

"  Life  is  lonely,  my  love  is  dead. 

[106] 


WHERE  THE  FLOWERS«TALK 

I  want  to  go  where  the  flowers  blow 

On  the  mountains  high  and  hoary; 
Where  the  summer  winds  shake  the  patient  pines 

And  the  sun,  in  its  golden  glory, 
Falls  o'er  the  stream  where  the  ripples  gleam; 

Where  the  shores  are  shoal  and  sandy. 
I  want  to  walk  where  the  flowers  talk 

On  the  banks  of  the  Rio  Grande. 

I  love  the  stills  in  the  running  rills  - 

The  willowy  rills,  half  hidden  - 
That  lie  in  the  lap  of  the  gentle  hills  - 

In  the  lap  of  the  hills  unc hidden. 
I  love  the  leas  where  the  honey  bees 

Are  making  sweets  from  the  clover. 
I  love  to  walk  where  the  flowers  talk, 

With  the  blue  sky  arching  over. 


[107] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


WHEN  WE  GO  OFF  AND  DIE 

The  road  is  rough  and  rocky, 

The  road  that  leads  to  fame; 
The  way  is  strewn  with  skeletons 

Of  those  who  have  grown  lame 
And  have  fallen  by  the  wayside; 

The  world  will  pass  you  by, 
Nor  pause  to  read  your  manuscript 

'Till  you  go  off  and  die. 

You'll  find  no  shoulders  here  below 

To  help  you  bear  the  cross ; 
You'll  have  to  eat  your  mutton  plain 

Without  the  caper  sauce; 
And  when  you  read  down  to  desert, 

You'll  find  a  dearth  of  pie, 
And  you'll  never  know  what  pudding  is 

'Till  you  go  off  and  die. 

But  there's  a  consolation  in 

The  thought  that  when  we're  dead 
If  we  have  written  something  good, 

Our  efforts  will  be  read. 
And  friends  will  plant  forget-me-nots, 

And  come  and  sit  and  sigh, 
And  irrigate  our  graves  with  tears 

When  we  go  off  and  die. 

[108] 


LO,  THE  POOR  INDIAN 

There's  only  one 

Good  Indian, 

It  has  been  said, 

And  he  is  dead ; 

But  with  this  jeii  d'esprit 

I  beg  to  disagree. 

There's  Lo, 

Who  for  a  century  or  so, 

Has  stood  in  sun  and  rain  alone, 

Making  no  moan. 

Let  those  who  frame  freak  laws 

Give  pause. 

This  painted  Indian  who  guards  the  store 

Knows  more 

Of  the  maudlin  midnight  secrets  of  the  souls  of 

men, 
Who  mouthed  them  over  and  over,  yet  and 

again, 

Than  any  other  Indian  red  or  white. 
How  oft  at  night, 

When  the  last  riotous  reveler  had  fled 
Or  lay  dead, 
Soused  in  the  sawdust,  have  you  gone  forth  to 

find  some  one 
To  lean  upon? 
Then  Lo, 

The  poor  son-of-a-gun 
Of  an  Indian, 

[109] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


Is  made  to  bear  the  White  Man's  Burden  for  an 

hour  or  so. 

And  when  you  have  wept  upon  his  vest 
You  sink  to  rest 
Against  his  chest ; 
Presently  you  wake  in  dire  distress 
And  evening  dress,— 
The    rosy    westering    sunlight    showing    your 

shame,— 
And  blame 

The  poor  Indian  for  keeping  you  out  all  night. 
It  is  a  fright 

The  way  we've  used  this  Indian  for  years, 
And  now  in  tears 
I  tear  off  this  tribute,  and  sob  out  this  sentiment 

to  Lo  - 
He's  got  to  go. 


[110] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARM  AN 


WORRISOME  JIM 

Jim  worried  and  worried  his  weary  life  through 
'Till  we  christened  him  Worrisome  Jim, 

Just  wondering  what  would  the  company  do 
If  anything  happened  to  him. 

His  pumps  were  forgotten,  his  water  ran  low, 
While  he  sat  a-thinking,  no  doubt. 

There's  a  rent  in  the  roof  of  the  mill  shed  to  show 
Where  Worrisome  Jimmie  went  out. 

The  ambulance  came  —  he  was  wagoned  away; 

For  a  time  he  lay  listless  and  still ; 
At  the  end  of  six  months,  half  a  year  to  a  day  — 

And  Jimmie  came  back  to  the  mill. 

But  he  wouldn't  stop  worrying.   Out  in  the  park, 
Where  the  street  lamps  at  intervals  shine, 

A  motor  came  hurrying  down  through  the  dark 
And  it  hit  him  a  kick  in  the  spine. 

The  old  mill  is  grinding  the  same  as  of  yore, 

The  eyes  of  his  widow  are  dim ; 
The  places  that  knew  him  now  know  him  no 
more, 

For  something  has  happened  to  him. 


[Ill] 


BAD  ON  THE  BIRD 

A  rash  little  robin  sailed  over  the  sea, 
And  lit  on  a  tree-twig,  and  gazing  at  me, 
He  softly  and  silently  folded  his  wing 
And  said,  in  a  whisper,  "  I  came  here  to  sing." 
"You  pose  as  a  poet,"  the  little  bird  said, 
"Then  why  don't  you  warble  and  waken  the 

dead 
Fields  and  flowers  that  slumber?     Warble  and 

bring 

The  lilies  to  life  again — Why  don't  you  sing?" 
I  looked  at  the  snow-drifts  that  lingered  around 
The  fences  and  trees,  where  the  frost  in  the 

ground 
Seemed  to  keep  them  from  melting,  -  -  I  saw 

not  a  thing, 
Save  the  bird,  that  gave  any  assurance  of 

spring. 

I  was  just  about  telling  the  bird  what  a  joke 
It  would  be  if  the  spring  didn't  come,  when  there 

broke 
O'er  the  valley  a  storm,  and  the  elements 

played 
Hail  on  his  tail  'till  his  feathers  were  frayed. 


[112] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


GENTLE  ANNIE 

Now  the  restless  hand  of  Nature 

Reaches  out  to  shift  the  scene, 
And  the  brooks  begin  to  warble  in  the  dell ; 

And  the  waking  fields  are  fluffy, 
And  the  meadow  lands  are  green, 

And  the  tassels  on  the  trees  begin  to  swell. 

Now  the  young  man  finds  his  fancy 
Turning  tow'rd  the  things  of  time, 

And  the  miner's  lightly  turning  tow'rd  the  trail; 
And  when  we  would  be  prosy, 

We  are  drifting  into  rhyme  - 
It  is  springtime,  gentle  Annie,  in  the  vale. 

Now  the  naked  hills  are  hiding 

'Neath  a  garb  of  gaudy  hue, 
And  the  tramps  are  growing  restless  in  the  jail; 

All  the  woodland  melts  in  melody, 
And  everything  is  new; 

It  is  springtime,  gentle  Annie,  in  the  vale. 


[113] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


THE  WAY  WE  WALKED 

I  met  a  woman  on  life's  way, 

A  woman  fair  to  see; 
Or  caught  up  with  her  I  should  say, 

Or  she  caught  up  with  me. 
"  The  way  is  long  when  one's  alone," 

I  said,  "and  dangerous,  too; 
I'll  help  you  by  each  stumbling  stone, 

If  I  may  walk  with  you." 

Then  on  we  went ;  her  laughing  eyes 

And  sunny  smiles  were  sweet; 
Above  us  blue  and  burnished  skies, 

And  roses  'neath  our  feet. 
"I'm  glad  your  sunny  face  I've  seen," 

I  said;  "  When  life  is  through 
I'll  own  the  best  of  it  has  been 

The  way  I  walked  with  you. 

"  I  do  not  say  my  love,  my  life, 

Will  all  be  given  to  grief 
When  you  are  gone;  the  ceaseless  strife 

Will  bring  me  much  relief. 
But  when  Death's  hand  the  curtain  draws, 

When  life's  long  journey's  through, 
'Twill  not  have  all  been  bad,  because 

I  came  part  way  with  you." 

[H4] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


THE  CITY  CHOIR 

I  went  to  hear  the  city  choir: 
The  summer  night  was  still. 

I  heard  the  music  mount  the  spire, 
They  sang:  "He'll  take  the  pil  — " 

"I'm  on!    I'm  on!"   the  tenor  cried; 

And  looked  into  my  face ; 
"My  journey  home,  My  journey  home,' 

Was  bellowed  by  the  bass. 

"  It  is  for  the  --  It  is  for  the  — " 
Shrieked  the  soprano  shrill. 

I  knew  not  why  they  looked  at  me, 
And  yelled,  "He'll  take  the  pil  — " 

Then  clutching  wildly  at  my  breast, 
Oh,  heaven !  My  heart  stood  still : 

"Yes,  yes,"  I  cried,  "If  that  is  best, 
Ye  powers !  I'll  take  the  pil  - 

As  I,  half  fainting,  reached  the  door, 

And  saw  the  starry  dome, 
I  heard  them  sing :  "  When  life  is  o'er 

He'll  take  the  pilgrim  home." 


[115] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


WE  AIN'T  HAD  NO  SPRING 

Man's  a  chump  to  set  and  rhyme 
'Bout  this  soft  Italian  clime  - 

Sunny  skies,  so  blue  and  bright ; 

Sky's  all  right,  but  out  o'  sight. 
Summer  birds  with  broken  wing  - 
Some  are  birds  that  want  to  sing  - 
We  ain't  had  a  bit  o'  spring. 

Sun  comes  out  and  then  goes  back  ; 
Ho'ses  waitin'  on  the  track. 

Summer's  here?     We  don't  know  where 

There's  no  music  in  the  air. 
Spring's  all  scrambled  with  the  fall  - 
I  think  Foster's  got  his  gall  - 
We  ain't  had  no  spring  at  all. 


THE  DEATH  OF  A  DEW-DROP 

My  sweetheart  placed  in  my  coat  lapel 
A  beautiful,  blushing  boutonnaire, 

And  there  was  a  dew-drop  where  it  fell, 

In  the  heart  of  the  rose  was  an  angel's  tear. 

How  sweet,  I  thought,  when  the  petals  close 
The  death  of  the  dew-drop  in  the  rose. 

[116] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


THE  PRINTER 

Poor  artists,  who  preserve  the  arts, 

Who  toil  through  weary  nights  and  days 

With  tired  eyes  and  heavy  hearts; 
No  poet  sings  the  printer's  praise. 

To  them,  the  years  no  glory  bring, 
They  walk  not  in  the  path  of  fame; 

But  uncomplaining  sit  and  sing 
The  praises  of  another's  name. 

And  me  they  much  have  helped  along, 

And  doubtless  after  I  am  dead 
They'll  print  my  name  and  spell  it  wrong, 

And  part  it  with  a  period. 

JEALOUSY 

A  brindle  pup  in  a  prairie  town 

Saw  a  greyhound  gliding  past, 
And  he  said  to  the  other  dogs  around: 

"  You  think  that  greyhound's  fast? 
Leave  ut  to  muh,"  as  the  trail  he  hit: 
"That  hound  can't  go  a  little  bit." 

The  brindle  pup  in  the  prairie  town 

Dug  deep  in  the  prairie  trail, 
But  miles  behind  the  hunting  hound, 

And  he  failed,  as  a  cur  must  fail ; 
And  then  with  biting,  snapping  snarl 
The  pup  went  back  to  the  garbage  barrel. 

[117] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


THE  FLYER 

Across  the  hill  and  down  the  dell, 

Past  station  after  station; 
The  muffled  music  of  the  bell 

Gives  voice  to  each  vibration. 

Out  o'er  the  prairie,  cold  and  gray, 

There  falls  a  flood  of  fire, 
While  orders  flash  for  miles  away : 

"Take  siding  for  the  flyer." 

The  engine  seems  to  fairly  float, 

Her  iron  sinews  quiver, 
While  swift,  beneath  her  throbbing  throat, 

The  rails  rush  like  a  river. 

Upon  the  seat  the  engineer, 

Who  knows  her  speed  and  power, 

Sits  silently  without  a  fear 
At  sixty  miles  an  hour. 


[118] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


ENGINE  .007 
To  Mr.  Kipling 

"  Now  a  locomotive  is,  next  to  a  marine  engine,  of  course, 
the  most  sensitive  thing  man  ever  made." —  Rudyard  Kipling  in 
Scribner's  Magazine. 


I  am  not  supersensitive  like  Canada  that  throws 
A  fit  and  has  hysterics  when  she's  called  a  land 

of  snows  - 
Which  snow  is  half  her  glory,  e'en  as  mine  bides 

in  my  pull, 
And  push,  and  speed,  and  come  and  go;  and  yet 

my  heart  is  full 
Of  grief  and  indignation.     First  off,  you  write 

me  "he," 
And  rate  me  'long  with  stationary  water  boilers. 

We- 
(I  speak  for  all  my  sisters  —  all  who  wear  the 

petticoat,* 
For  we  are  "ladies"  every  one,  aye,  even  to  the 

Goat)f 
We  all  are  proud  to  have  engaged  the  pen  of  one 

who  may 
At  will  depict  the  eagle  less  imposing  than  the 

jay; 

*  Draft,  or  lifting  pipe.        f  A  yard  engine. —  C.  W. 

[1191 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


II 

Who  only  needs  to  pause,  and  touch,  or  breathe 

upon  the  strings 
Of  the  mute  lyre,  and  lo,  the  songless  slumberer 

wakes  and  sings, 
And  all  the  glad  world  listens  to  his  songs  that 

rise  and  swell; 
Blame  not  my  poor  interpreter,  for  he,  too,  loves 

you  well. 
He  loves  your  friend,  McAndrews,  too,  who  loved 

his  engines  so; 

The  engines  Calvin  might   have   made,   "enor- 
mous," aye,  but  "slow." 
My  driver  also  loves  me.     He  knows  the  sort  of 

steel 
Of  which  my  wheels  and  ribs  are  wrought,  and 

what  it  is  to  feel 
My  hot  breath  on  his  upturned  face ;  to  test  my 

speed  and  power; 
While  holding  me  against  the  night  at  ninety 

miles  an  hour. 

Ill 

And  you  call  these  more  sensitive  who  flounder 
in  the  sea, 

Or  drive  the  tug  —  or  boil  the  glue  —  more  sensi- 
tive than  we, 

Who  show  ourselves  in  half  an  hour  in  half  a 
dozen  towns, 

[120] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


And  sound  our  bells  by  running  brooks  and 

whistle  on  the  downs; 
I  thank  you  kindly,  Kipling,  for  the  kind  words 

you  have  said, 
I'd  blush  to  seem  ungrateful,   yet  when  my 

driver  read : 
"Next  to  marine  engine"    -O!  Nigger-stoked 

at  sea ! 
Well,  when  it  all  came  home  to  him,  he  shot  one 

glance  at  me, 
The  sunset  shimmering  o'er  my  sides  and  on  my 

burnished  bell, 
And  white  steam  fluttering  from  my  dome  as  we 

dropped  down  the  dell. 

IV 

We  passed  a  ferry  coughing  low  and  sidling  cross 
a  stream; 

The  driver  pulled  my  whistle  valve  and  made  me 
fairly  scream ; 

"Wi!  Wi!  watch  the  world  goby!"  you  should 
have  seen  his  smile; 

The  clock  hands  marking  forty-seven  seconds  to 
the  mile. 

I  hope  it  was  not  vanity.  The  engine  in  the 
mill 

That  toils  and  runs  from  year  to  year,  tho'  al- 
ways standing  still, 

Excites  my  pity.     Like  a  fettered  felon  in  his 

chains 

[121] 


She  toils  on  patiently,  while  I  go  romping  o'er 

the  plains. 
I'm  sure  the  lumbering  engine  that  rolls  in  a 

twisting  sea 
Would  gladly,  gladly  come  ashore  and  roam  the 

earth  with  me. 


She  knows  there  is  a  "world"  somewhere  that 

she  has  never  seen. 
She  knows  she  has  a  boiler,  too,  somewhere 

below  the  green 
Line  of  the  ocean.     Now  the  driver  hooked  my 

lever  back 
A  notch,  and  leaning,  listened  to  the  flutter  of 

my  stack. 
We  passed  a  little  thresher  engine,  sweating  in 

a  field, 
And  how  my  heart  went  out  to  her,  rust-red  and 

half  concealed 
In  smoke  and  dust.     The  driver  lightly  laid  his 

hand  on  me, 
And  touched  my  throttle  half  a  hair,  'n  I  felt 

the  touch.     Says  he: 
"Did  you  read  what  that  rooster  writ,  'bout 

sensitive  machines?" 
"Yes,"  said  the  fireman;   "that's  a  joke,  'twas 

writ  for  the  marines." 


[122] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


I  OUGHT  TO  BE  BETTER 

I'm  thinking,  my  queen, 
As  we  sit  here  to-night, 

How  loveless  and  lone  life  would  be 
If  I  were  to  lose  you, 
My  own  heart's  delight. 

Ah,  God  has  dealt  kindly  with  me. 

He's  given  you  to  me 
To  help  me  along 

And  brighten  the  days  that  are  dim ; 
And  I  do  so  much 
In  my  life  that  is  wrong  - 

I  ought  to  be  better  to  Him. 


[123] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


THE  PRINCESS  INGINITA 

A  tawny  princess,  long  ago, 

Lived  in  the  "middle  Arid  Zone" 
And  played  upon  the  hills  alone  ; 

The  hills  whereon  the  Cacti  blow. 

There  came  from  out  the  sunny  south 

A  Spaniard,  with  a  mandolin, 

Who  sang  and  played  and  played  to  win, 
And  kissed  the  maiden  on  the  mouth. 

He  told  her  she  was  beautiful, 

And  sang  the  same  song  o'er  and  o'er, 
They  kissed  again  —  he  sang  some  more ; 

She  made  him  moccasins  of  wool. 

Anon  he  failed  his  tryst  to  keep, 
For,  after  all,  she  was  not  fair. 
Her  hair  was  like  a  horse's  hair  - 

She  had  to  whip  her  face  to  sleep. 

She  contemplated  suicide, 
But  saw,  reflected  from  the  stream 
Her  mirrored  face ;  he  heard  her  scream : 

"Cayuse!  Cayuse!  the  Spaniard  lied." 


[124J 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


THE  PASSING  OF  THE  LOCOMOTIVE  —  A 
REVERIE 

"Ah,  well/'  said  the  Iron  Horse,  heaving  a  sigh 
That  was  followed  anon  by  a  tear; 

"  They've  made  me  do  everything  else  but  fly, 
Since  Stephenson  sent  me  here. 

"  From  killing  an  hour  for  every  twelve  miles, 
To  a  hundred  and  twelve  an  hour; 

The  Yankee  redoubles  his  toil  and  smiles 
As  he  doubles  my  pace  and  power. 

"  When  tempests  have  howled  I  have  gone  to  the 
front 

The  force  of  the  blizzard  to  check; 
Of  countless  collisions  I've  taken  the  brunt 

And  have  laid  in  the  ruins  a  wreck. 

"  Now,  like  the  '  old  woman,'  they  say  I  must 

go, 

And  so  make  a  place  for  the  'new7; 
A  mile  and  a  half  in  a  minute's  too  slow 
For  the  Yankee.     I  know  what  I'll  do : 

"  I'll  go  back  to  England,  far  over  the  sea, 
My  pace  will  be  swift  there,  I'm  told; 

Tho'  the  old  things  of  England  are  new  to  me, 
The  new  things  of  England  are  old. 

[1251 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


"There,  a  thousand  long  years  are  the  same  as  a  day, 

And  a  day  as  a  thousand  years. 
There,  when  an  old  thing  has  wasted  away, 

Another  old  thing  appears. 

"  Adieu  to  the  land  of  the  setting  sun, 

Impetuous  Yankee,  good-by. 
I'll  just  jog  along  to  the  end  of  my  run, 

You  put  on  your  pinions  and  fly." 


BY-AND-BY 

What  shall  we  all  be  doing,  by-and-by? 
There'll  be  so  much  of  blueing  in  our  sky, 

When  we've  made  an  end  of  Trusting, 

And  consequential  Busting, 

And  Literary  Dusting, 
In  your  eye  —  by-and-by, 
And  Literary  Dusting  in  your  eye. 

When  the  frenzy-freighted  bombs  have  all  been 

hurled, 

When  the  battle-bloody  banner  has  been  furled, 
We  shall  know  no  more  of  Trusting 
And  Literary  Dusting 
When    we've    Stieffen-Tarbul-Lawsonized    the 

world  - 

Happy  World  - 
When    we've    Stieffen-Tarbul-Lawsonized    the 

world. 
[126] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


I  WOULD  KNOW  MY  NATIVE  LAND 

There  are  those  who  praise  the  poet  who  can  soar 

in  starry  spheres, 
And  can  mold  his  mystic    phrases    from    the 

wrecks  of  other  years. 
I  would  have  my  inspiration  fresh  from  Nature's 

open  hand; 
I  would  sing  a  simple  sonnet  that  a  child  can 

understand. 

I  would  walk  the  verdant  valley,  where  the  salt 

waves  wash  the  feet 
Of  the  Wasatch;  gazing  upward  where  the  sky 

and  mountains  meet, 
Filled  with  awe  and  admiration  I  would  kneel 

upon  the  strand, 
And  thank  heaven  for  this  picture  even  I  can 

understand. 


[1271 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


Young  Yanker  came  down  the  hill  one  day 
And  the  wind  could  hardly  keep  out  of  his  way; 
The  air  was  good,  and  the  brakes  were  set, 
And  he  waddled  his  head  with  a  "  you  can  bet 
That  I'm  a  brave  young  engineer, 
Never  see  nothin'  that  looked  like  fear." 
And  this  is  the  way,  the  brakemen  say, 
When  the  birds  were  singing  one  morning  in  May, 
Young  Yanker  came  down  the  mountain. 

The  Station  Agent  flew  out  at  the  door 

As  the  train  went  by  with  a  rush  and  a  roar, 

Saying,  "  Young  Yanker's  exceedingly  flip. 

He  must  be  making  his  maiden  trip," 

And  then,  after  showing  how  fast  he  could  run, 

He'd  pull  the  whistle  for  brakes  for  fun. 

And  this  is  the  way  all  summer  each  day, 

A  little  too  sudden  the  "soop"  would  say 

Young  Yanker  came  down  the  mountain. 

The  shack  and  the  stoker  would  congregate 
And  the  youthful  conductor  would  then  relate 
How  the  old-time  runners  would  take  it  slow 
And  this  daring  young  driver  would  let  'em  go. 
"Ah,  well,"  said  the  hoary-haired  knight  of  the 

punch, 

"  We'll  pick  him  up  some  day,  all  in  a  bunch." 
And  this  is  the  way,  all  summer  each  day, 
[128] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


When  the  fields  were  fraught  with  the  odor  of 

hay, 
Young  Yanker  came  down  the  mountain. 


Young  Yanker  came  down  the  hill  one  day 
His  face  was  white  and  his  hair  was  gray. 
He  shivered  and  shook  as  he  stood  on  the  deck, 
And  the  bulk  of  his  breakfast  was  up  in  his  neck. 
With  the  speed  of  a  bullet  he  rounded  a  curve, 
He  wanted  to  jump,  but  he  hadn't  the  nerve  - 
And  this  is  the  way,  no  cause  for  delay, 
"  Hellity-larupe, "  the  Brakemen  say, 
Young  Yanker  came  down  the  mountain. 

The  trainmen  thought  he  was  trying  his  hand 
'Till  he  pulled  her  over  and  gave  her  the  sand. 
The  shack  and  the  stoker  flew  over  the  deck 
And  the  speed  of  the  train  were  beginning  to 

check ; 
With  the  aid  of  the  engine  they  finished  their 

work 

And  the  cars  all  came  to  a  stop  with  a  jerk. 
And  this  is  the  way,  the  trainmen  say, 
On  this  sear  and  serious  autumn  day, 
Young  Yanker  came  down  the  mountain. 

Then  he  traded  a  lot  of  his  sand  for  sense 
With  a  lot  of  hilarity  learned  to  dispense. 

[129] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


He  has  no  desire  the  card  to  exceed 

He  takes  better  care  of  his  fiery  steed. 

His  face  wears  a  look  that's  serene  and  sublime, 

He  strikes  every  station  exactly  on  time. 

And  this  is  the  way,  the  officers  say, 

In  the  darkness  of  night  or  the  stormiest  day 

Young  Yanker  comes  down  the  mountain. 


PERIOD  ! 

If  I  but  could  do  what  I  would, 
A  pile  driver  would  drop 

On  every  pesky  period 

Within  your  bloomin'  shop. 

Then,  later  on,  when  I  am  gone, 
Have  petered  out  and  past, 

I  need  not  dread  that  period 
'Twixt  my  first  name  and  last. 


[130] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


THE  ALL  RED  INDIAN 

I  am  an  all  red  Indian, 

A  British  Columbia  Cree; 
I  always  lay  aside  my  gun 

When  I  go  on  a  jamboree, 
It  is  a  disgrace  to  paint  your  face 

When  you  ought  to  be  painting  the  town, 
And  here  is  one  to  the  son-of-a-gun 

Who  gets  up  when  the  sun  goes  down. 

The  pale-face  hike  to  the  lonely  pike, 

To  the  forest  undefiled ; 
With  their  little  pack,  they're  trailing  back, 

To  the  heart  of  the  ancient  wild. 
That's  not  for  me !    I'm  a  timber  Cree, 

And  I  pant  for  the  prairie  brown, ' 
And  a  midnight  run  with  the  son-of-a-gun 

Who  gets  up  when  the  sun  goes  down. 

I  hate  the  glare  of  the  chemin  de  fer, 

And  the  dusty  trail  by  day; 
But  I  delight  in  the  lamps  of  night 

That  gleam  on  the  Great  White  Way. 
I  hate  the  hush  of  the  lonely  bush 

And  the  hills  in  glacial  gown, 
I  take  my  fun  with  the  son-of-a-gun 

Who  gets  up  when  the  sun  goes  down. 


[131] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


It  were  not  wise  to  civilize 

All  of  these  carmin  yaps, 
For  some  must  win  the  beaver  skin 

And  some  must  mind  the  traps, 
But  the  sparkling  wine  for  me  and  mine, 

Or  a  brew  of  autumn  brown, 
And  a  midnight  run  with  the  son-of-a-gun 

Who  gets  up  when  the  sun  goes  down. 


[132] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


THE  SUNDOWN  SEA 

Have  you  heard  of  the  sundown  sea,  love, 

With  its  blue  and  golden  skies, 
Where  the  ripples  play  the  livelong  day 

And  the  summer  never  dies? 
There  is  health  and  wealth  for  you,  love, 

There  is  wealth  and  health  for  me, 
There  is  all  that's  in  the  golden  west 

On  the  shore  of  the  sundown  sea. 

There's  a  tear  on  every  thorn,  love, 

Of  the  storm-scarred  locust ;  there 
Are  dripping  leaves  and  icy  eaves, 

And  a  wail  on  the  wintry  air. 
There's  a  song  in  the  frozen  rill,  love, 

But  it's  lost  to  you  and  me; 
There's  a  muffled  cry  in  the  wind-swept  sky, 

Then  away  to  the  sundown  sea. 

There  is  frost  in  your  raven  hair,  love 

Your  cheeks  are  thin  and  pale 
Your  dark  eye  turns  and  your  spirit  yearns 

For  a  glimpse  of  the  sunset  trail. 
I  will  sing  a  new  song  to  you,  love 

And  you'll  sing  a  new  song  to  me, 
And  we'll  grow  young  as  we  journey  along 

On  the  way  to  the  sundown  sea. 


[133] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


THE  CRY  OF  A  WOUNDED  HEART 

Put  by  your  lute  —  sing  not  to  me 
Of  blood-red  rose  and  sunny  sky, 
The  clouds  are  come  —  the  roses  die 

As  my  dead  heart  has  died  in  me ; 

There  is  no  sunny,  sundown  sea ! 

Sing  not  to  me  —  sing  not  to  me ! 
There's  no  East,  there  is  no  West, 
There's  just  a  torn  place  in  my  breast, 

There's  nothing!    Only  land  and  sea, 

All  one  wide  waste  of  misery. 


LOCAL  COLOR 

First  the  baby's  bonny  eyes  caught  the  color  of 

the  skies, 
Then  his  tiny  little  toes  took  the  color  of  the 

rose; 
But  he  never  seemed  so  sweet  'till  his  pudgy 

little  feet 
Ambled  out  across  the  lawn  and  caught  the 

color  of  the  street. 


[134] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARM  AN 


IS  IT  REALLY  ANY  GOOD? 

You're  a  Critic,  in  your  attic, 

Up  above  the  dust  and  din, 
On  an  essay  you're  in  duty  bound  to  do; 
When  your  sanctum  opens  softly 

And  a  sonneteer  comes  in, 
Who  was  never  any  good  to  you. 
But  the  poet  smiles  serenely,  while  you're  stifling 

a  moan, 
For  he  wants  your  honest  judgment  on  an  effort 

of  his  own; 

When  you  tell  him  that  it's  rotten  and  the  son- 
neteer has  flown  - 
Is  he  really  any  good  to  you? 

Were  you  ever  any  good  to  him,  William? 

He  was  never  any  good,  to  you; 
You  could  help  him,  if  you  would, 
But  you'd  scalp  him  if  you  could, 

For  he  isn't  any  good,  to  you. 

You're  a  Beauty,  by  the  bard 

And  by  the  belted  hero  wooed, 
Doing  nothing,  for  you've  nothing  else  to  do; 
Or,  perhaps  you're  pouring  pink  tea 

For  a  pink-a-doodle  dude 
Who  was  never  any  good,  to  you. 
When  you  listen  to  his  lyrics  of  a  diamond  in  the 
skies, 

[135] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


With  a  glimmer  that  is  dimmer  than  the  shimmer 

of  your  eyes, 
When  he  tells  you  where  his  treasure  lies  —  and 

other  little  lies  - 
Is  he  really  any  good,  to  you? 

Was  he  ever  any  good,  to  you,  girlie  f 

He  was  never  any  good,  to  you; 
You  could  choose  him  if  you  would 
But  you'd  loose  him  if  you  could, 
For  he  isn't  any  good,  to  you. 

You're  a  Merger,  with  a  hundred 

Million  dollars  in  the  bank, 
Up  and  doing,  till  there's  no  one  left  to  do ; 
When  your  ship  is  on  the  ocean 

And  the  oil  is  in  the  tank, 
Is  it  really  any  good,  to  you? 
When  you're  owning  all  that's  ownable  between 

the  earth  and  sky, 
Every  four-and-twenty  hours  will  another  day 

goby; 
When  you  dare  not  eat  a  carrot,  lest  you  double 

up  and  die, 
Is  it  really  any  good,  to  you? 

It  was  never  any  good  to  me,  Rocky; 

Was  it  ever  any  good,  to  you? 
Could  you  stop  it  if  you  would, 
Would  you  drop  it  if  you  could, 
Is  it  really  any  good,  to  you? 
[136] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


You're  a  Soldier,  there's  a  Sultan, 

On  a  lonely  little  isle, 

Doing  nothing,  for  there's  nothing  else  to  do ; 
When  you  hail  him  and  the  heathen 

Comes  to  greet  you  with  a  smile  - 
Is  he  really  any  good,  to  you? 
You  approach  him  with  your  Bible  and  your 

bottle  and  your  gun, 
If  he  doesn't  hike  he's  high-balled,  and  you'll 

hit  him  if  he  run; 
When  a  dozen  weedless  widows  stand  aweeping 

in  the  sun  - 
Are  they  really  any  good  to  you? 

Were  you  ever  any  good,  to  him,  Johnnie, 
He  was  never  any  good,  to  you; 

You  could  win  him  if  you  would, 

But  you'd  skin  him  if  you  could, 
For  he  isn't  any  good  —  to  you. 


[137] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARM  AN 


AT  THE  RAINBOW'S  TIP 

Under  the  arch  of  the  curving  sky, 

The  silent  Siwash  sits  alone, 
Close  by  the  trail  of  the  Pes'la-ki, 

Hearing  the  low  winds  wail  and  moan, 
Wagging  his  head  and  wondering  why 

The  white  man  comes  in  a  steaming  ship 

To  search  for  gold  at  the  rainbow's  tip. 

"  For  what  is  gold  but  a  yellow  stone? 

A  part  of  this  worthless  waste  of  hills?" 
The  Siwash  questions.     The  sad  winds  moan, 

But  make  no  answer.     A  robin  trills, 
The  long  night  curtains  the  Klondyke  sky, 

And  still  they  come,  ship  after  ship, 

To  search  for  gold  at  the  rainbow's  tip. 


A  TOAST 

To  woman,  source  of  every  curse 
And  every  comfort  man  endures, 

You  bring  relief  as  well  as  grief ; 
What  one  has  caused  another  cures. 


[138] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


TO  BABY  ASLEEP 

God  keep  you,  dearest,  while  the  morning  sun 
Lights  up  the  world  and  the  world  is  bright; 

And  then  at  last,  when  the  day  is  done, 

God  keep  you,  dearest,  through  the  long,  long 
night. 

God  keep  you,  dearest,  when  the  earth  is  gay 
With  singing  birds  and  fields  in  bloom ; 

When  summer's  verdure  fades  away 

God  keep  you,  dearest,  through  the  winter's 
gloom. 

God  keep  you,  dearest,  from  day  to  day 
Throughout  this  life.     When  I  am  dumb, 

And  when  your  fair  form  turns  to  clay, 
God  keep  you,  dearest,  in  the  life  to  come. 


[139] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


A  REPORTER'S  REPORT 

It  was  sometime  in  the  P.  M.   of  the  fall  of 

'92, 
I  had  cashed  in  the  Creede  Chronicle  —  had 

nothing  much  to  do. 
I  had  seen  the  man  of  leisure  who  was  loafing  on 

the  street, 
Who  had  every  fad  and  fashion  from  his  head 

down  to  his  feet, 
And  this  prince  was  a  reporter;  so  I  shined  my 

Sunday  shoes, 

And  went  down  to  do  the  railroads  for  the 
Rocky  Mountain  News. 


Now  the  city  man  was  Martin  from  McCullagh's 

Democrat, 
And  he  glanced  above  his  glasses  as  I  doffed  my 

derby  hat  - 
I  had  owned  a  daily  paper  in  the  springtime  of 

that  year 
That  had  sunk  ten  thousand  dollars;   I  had 

nothing  then  to  fear. 
I  had  planned  that  in  the  morning  I  would  dally 

with  the  muse, 

In  the  P.M.  do  the  railroads  for  the  Rocky 
Mountain  News. 

[140] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


"Well,  ahem,  ahem!"  said  Martin,  clearin'  cob- 
webs from  his  throat, 
While  the  smoke  from  his  Havana  'round  my 

face  began  to  float, 
"  I  presume  that  you're  in  touch  with  the  officials 

here  in  town, 
Having  worked  for  them;    however,  I  shall 

have  to  send  you  down 
To  police  court";   then  he  coughed  again  and 

shed  his  overshoes, 

"That's  included  with  the  railroads  on  the 
Rocky  Mountain  News." 

I  assured  him  that  the  railroads,  to  my  mind, 

would  be  a  snap ; 
I  could  talk  about  train  orders,  and  could 

write  on  lead  and  lap, 
I  could  banquet  with  the  president,  or  if  I  chose 

could  take 
A  turn  down  in  the  freight  yards  with  the  men 

who  twist  the  brake, 
I  could  hobnob  with  the  fireman  while  he  augered 

out  his  flues  - 

I  could  surely  do  the  railroads  for  the  Rocky 
Mountain  News. 

"  We're  a  little  bit  short-handed  —  you  will  do 

the  county  courts, 

And  this  evening  after  dinner  drift  around 
among  the  sports  - 

[141] 


There's  a  prize  fight  down  at  Murphy's."     Then 

he  paused  and  rubbed  his  head, 
"That  is  all  I  have  to  say  now,"  this  encyclo- 

pedia said. 
I  didn't  say  a  word  then,  but  I  thought  it  beat 

the  Jews 

The  way  they  did  the  railroads  on  the  Rocky 
Mountain  News. 

I  had  buttoned  up  my  overcoat,  was  headed  for 

the  stair, 
When  the  quidnunc's  restless  fingers  wandered 

through  his  wealth  of  hair. 
I  had  reached  the  elevator  when  he  called  me 

back  and  said  : 
"You  will  have  to  do  the  state  house  for  the 

state  house  man  is  dead." 
My  poor  heart  sank  within  me,  but  I  couldn't 

well  refuse 

Since  it  all  went  with  the  railroads  on  the 
Mountain  News. 


"See  the  concerts  at  the  churches  in  the  early 

eve,"  he  said. 
"  Try  and  do  Dean  Hart's  cathedral  where  an 

heiress  is  to  wed 
An  English  dude  from  Dublin  —  Freeman  won't 

be  here  to-day. 
You  may  write  about  a  column  on  what  old- 

timers  say 
[1421 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


About   the   San   Juan   gold   excitement  —  but 

mind,  we  can't  excuse 

Any  neglect  of  the  railroads  on  the  Rocky 
Mountain  News." 

I  was  off.     For  ten  long  hours  through  the  slush 

and  snow  and  sleet, 
Up  the  stone  steps  at  the  state  house,  out 

again  and  down  the  street, 
Till  I  paused  to  feed  at  midnight  —  hit  the  bottle 

till  my  soup 
Seemed  a  sea  of  strange  assignments  —  every 

oyster  was  a  scoop. 

Mused  on  how  the  other  papers  would  be  bur- 
dened with  the  blues 

When  they  read  about  the  railroads  in  the 
Rocky  Mountain  News. 

After  lunch  I  wrote  my  copy,  which  told  how 

the  Rio  Grand 
Had  a  good  house,  and  the  organ  was  wide 

open  working  sand. 
'Twas  a  cold  day  for  the  criminals  who  proceed 

in  wicked  ways, 
For  they  raided  all  the  churches  and  the  dean 

got  twenty  days. 

The  soprano  dropped  her  crown  sheet,  the  police- 
man warped  his  flues 

Throwing  in  too  much  cold  water,  said  the 
Rocky  Mountain  News. 

[143] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


Big  strike  on  the  reservation,  all  the  Navajos 

went  out; 
How  the  toughs  had  met  at  Trinity  to  hear  the 

seconds  shout, 
All  the  preachers  in  their  pulpits  piling  up  their 

little  piles 

On  Jim  Corbett.     How  the  ladies  down  at 
Murphy's  blocked  the  aisles. 


The  next  day  I  got  a  letter  that  would  give  a 

man  the  blues : 

"  This  is  good,  but  we  can't  read  it."     Signed : 
"The  Rocky  Mountain  News!" 

Now  I  view  the  proud  reporter  as  he  swiftly 

sallies  by, 
A  botbailed  flush  upon  his  cheek,  a  twinkle  in 

his  eye. 
He  has  my  sincere  sympathy  -  -  I  do  not  want 

his  place. 
I  pine  not  for  his  twinkle,  nor  the  flush  upon 

his  face. 
No    matter    what    inducements,    I    invariably 

refuse, 

Since  the  day  I  did  the  railroads  for  the 
Rocky  Mountain  News. 


144] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


SUMMER'S  GONE 

Summer's  gone.     Ah,  soon  the  sea 
Will  miss  my  summer  love  and  me. 
The  soft  sea- waves  that  used  to  float 
Around  her  form  and  kiss  her  throat, 
Will  sigh  and  seek  the  shore,  and  then 
Flow  back  into  the  gulf  again. 
The  summer's  gone. 

Summer's  gone.     The  robin's  trill 
Will  soon  be  hushed,  and  o'er  the  hill 
The  aspen  trees,  in  tints  of  gold, 
Will  shiver  in  the  coming  cold; 
But  when  we  part,  how  sweet  'twill  be 
To  know  that  she's  in  love  with  me, 
Tho'  summer's  gone. 


[145] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


THE  POET  AND  THE  PUBLISHER 

The  uncomplaining  Poet  lives 
On  air  and  dreams  and  things; 

With  eager  ears  the  world  receives 
The  happy  songs  he  sings. 

But  when  the  Poet's  strength  is  spent, 

His  hands  lie  on  his  breast, 
The  Poet's  heirs  get  ten  per  cent  - 

The  Publisher  the  rest ! 


THE  FIRST  CHRISTMAS  GIFT 

Of  all  the  precious  gifts  that  daily  shower 
From  out  a  gracious  Heaven  on  this  ungrateful 

earth, 

Thou  gav'st  the  best,  sweet  mother,  in  that  hour 
When,  by  God's  will,  thou  gav'st  the  Saviour 
birth. 


[146] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


ADOWN  THE  DUSKY  DELL 

Behind  the  mossy  mountain  tip 

Sinks  the  setting  sun, 
Aslant  the  shade  the  swallows  dip, 

The  summer  day  is  done. 
The  busy  brook  sings  softly, 

Like  the  tinkling  of  a  bell, 
And  still  and  gray  the  shadows  lay 

Adown  the  dusky  dell. 

Across  the  silent  summit  steals 

The  melancholy  moon, 
And  up  the  vale  and  vegas  comes 

The  balmy  breath  of  June. 
Fraught  with  the  sighs  of  summer, 

Now  the  softly  gentle  breeze, 
With  tender  touch  has  come  to  comb 

The  tresses  of  the  trees. 


[147] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


MISUNDERSTOOD 

"Poor  little  ring,"  a  woman  said, 
"  Twelve  weary  years !  twelve  to  a  day 

Since  thou  wert  given,  and  love  is  dead; 
He  weeps  alone,  far,  far  away. 

Ah !  little  present,  can  it  be 

I  loved  him  less  than  he  loved  me?" 

"Poor  withered  rose!"  a  soldier  said; 

"Once  worn  upon  my  lady's  breast; 
She  weeps  alone  where  love  lies  dead, 

And  I  the  truth  have  never  guessed 
Through  all  these  years.  Oh !  can  it  be 

I  loved  her  less  than  she  loved  me?" 


[148] 


GONE 

Only  a  dream  of  you,  only  a  dream, 
All  I  can  claim  of  you;  yet  it  doth  seem 
That  we  are  still  sailing  the  same  summer  sea, 
And  that  you  are  ever  and  always  with  me. 

Only  a  dream  of  you,  born  in  a  day, 
Full-blown  and  beautiful,  fadeless  alway; 
Things  are  not  always  the  things  that  they 

seem,  - 
Spare  me  this  dream  of  you,  —  beautiful  dream. 

Lift  up  the  face  of  you,  turn  not  away, 
Bear  but  a  moment  and  hear  what  I  say, 
When  you  drift   onward,  down   Life's  limpid 

stream, 
Leave  me  this  dream  of  you,  —  beautiful  dream. 

Waking,  I  walk  with  you;  slumbering  deep 
I  dream  of  you.     O,  when  I  wake  from  my  sleep, 
I  grope  for  you,  dear,  in  the  dusk  of  the  dawn 
And  find  myself  sobbing:   "She's  gone,  she  is 
gone!" 


[149] 


Cities      Have  Seen 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


COLORADO  SPRINGS 

Here  on  the  selvedge  of  the  plain, 

Where  Pike's  lone  peak  is  towering  tall; 

Just  where  the  shipless  sun-dried  main 
Breaks  on  the  rough,  resistless  wall; 

Beyond  a  desert  sea  of  sands 

The  city  that  I  sing  of  stands. 

Broad  boulevards  trend  toward  the  hills, 
Where  from  the  shaded  canon  springs 

A  balm  for  all  our  earthly  ills; 

And  down  the  verdant  valley  sings 

The  joyous  stream,  through  summer  hours, 

Through  beds  of  fern  and  fields  of  flowers. 

Above  the  city  soars  the  lark, 

And  wakes  the  earth  with  joyous  sounds; 
Glad  children  playing  in  the  park, 

And  lovers  loitering  through  the  grounds; 
The  sighing  breeze  and  honey  bees 
Are  drifting,  droning  through  the  trees. 


[153] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


JERUSALEM 

How  cheerless  is  the  wind  that  sweeps 

The  hills  of  Galilee, 
Where  murmurless  the  Jordan  creeps 

Down  to  the  deep  Dead  Sea. 

O'er  barren  rocks  the  dead  vines  trail, 

And  by  dead  tendrils  cling, 
And  on  the  hill  and  in  the  vale 

There  is  no  breath  of  spring. 

The  dying  glance  of  Christ  the  King 
Seems  to  have  stayed  and  stilled 

The  voice  of  every  living  thing 
Where  Christ  the  King  was  killed. 

The  brooks,  the  birds  that  sang  with  them, 

Have  long  since  passed  away, 
And  all  about  Jerusalem 

The  earth  is  dead  to-day. 


[154] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


SALT  LAKE 

With  awe  I  watch  the  sun  go  down 

Across  the  great  Salt  Lake; 
The  mountains  don  their  golden  crown, 
The  soaring  seagulls  circle  'round, 
The  gentle  billows  break. 

And  when  I  scan  what's  made  for  man, 
To  make  his  heart  grow  glad, 

With  wonderment  my  heart  I  hush ; 

I  feel  the  flush  of  shame's  hot  blush, 
Because  my  soul  is  sad. 


IN  MONTREAL 

The  Bobsled  to  the  Motor, 
As  it  choo-chooed  to  and  fro : 

"  Comment  ca  va,  old  Honk-honk ; 
How  do  you  like  the  snow?" 

It  rained !  the  big  red  motor 
Was  right  there  on  the  job: 

"This  leaves  you  on  your  uppers," 
Said  the  Motor  to  the  Bob. 


[155] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


CHEYENNE 

Have  you  been  to  Cheyenne? 

There's  the  loneliest  place, 
The  drearest  and  searest 

You'll  find  on  the  face 
Of  the  earth.    And  hard  by 

Lieth  Laramie  town, 

Once  a  camp  of  renown 
As  the  home  of  Bill  Nye. 

Empty  bottles  and  gravel, 
And  cactus  and  cans, 

Broken  vows  and  old  hoops 
Freight  the  hot  wind  that  fans 

The  parched  plain.     Going  back 
To  the  bottle  and  can  - 

I  was  broke  in  Cheyenne. 

Years  after  I  sat 

In  the  manager's  car 

As  it  slipped  o'er  the  steel 
Trail  with  never  a  jar, 

And  our  train  orders  ran 
Us  by  way  of  Cheyenne. 

What  a  wonderful  change 

Had  come  over  the  place! 
Oh,  the  women  were  fair. 
[156] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


There  was  one  who  had  eyes 
Just  the  hue  of  the  skies; 
And  the  low  winds  were  soft, 
And  the  things  that  we  quaffed 
Well,  we  laid  over  there. 

"Ah,  so  much  depends," 

I  said,  with  a  sigh, 

As  the  hours  flew  by, 

"  On  a  friend  and  his  friends. 

Say,  Deuel,  how  can 

We  go  'way  from  Cheyenne?" 


[157] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


CAIRO 

I  had  banqueted  in  Berlin,  seen  a  festival  in 

Rome, 
Had  a  midnight  lunch  in  London  and  a  heap  o' 

things  at  home ; 
But  I  never  knew  what  life  was  'till  I  lingered  for 

a  while 
Where  they  used  to  have  a  harem  on  the  margin 

of  the  Nile. 

Where  the  swaying  palm  and  pepper  fling  their 
fragrance  on  the  air, 

And  the  moaning  camel  kneels  to  take  the  bur- 
den he  must  bear, 

Then,  rising  shakes  his  silver  bells  and  shuffles 
down  the  file, 

Where  they  used  to  have  a  harem  on  the  margin 
of  the  Nile. 

Here  dreamy,  dark-eyed  maidens  come  to  loiter 

in  the  leaves 
That  begirth  Gezerich  Palace,  where,  like  rain 

from  dripping  eves, 
Runs  the  ceaseless  song  of  summer,  for  the 

heavens  seem  to  smile 
Where  they  used  to  have  a  harem  on  the  margin 

of  the  Nile. 


[158] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


SAN  FRANCISCO,  1894 

There's  a  band  of  dusky  damsels 

From  the  Occidental  Isles; 
They  are  wily,  wild  and  wooly, 

But  they  wear  such  winsome  smiles 
That  the  high  walls  of  the  wigwam 

Fairly  echo  with  delight 
When  they  do  the  Hula  Hula, 

And  they  dance  it  every  night. 

With  an  air  of  Eve-like  innocence 

That  time  has  not  effaced, 
They  wear  no  clothes,  to  speak  of, 

Save  a  reef  around  the  waist 
Made  of  sea- weeds;  beads  and  bangles 

And  their  sandals,  limp  and  light, 
When  they  do  the  Hula  Hula, 

And  they  dance  it  every  night. 

They're  consigned  to  Colonel  Cody; 

They  are  going  to  the  Fair, 
With  their  smiles  and  troubled  tresses 

And  whatever  else  they  wear. 
They  have  faded  San  Francisco, 

And  they're  sure  to  hold  the  host 
If  they  do  the  Hula  Hula 

As  they  dance  it  on  the  coast. 


[159] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


CREEDE 

Here's  a  land  where  all  equal  - 

Of  high  or  lowly  birth  - 
A  land  where  men  make  millions, 

Dug  from  the  dreary  earth. 
Here  meek  and  mild-eyed  burro's 

On  mineral  mountains  feed. 
It's  day  all  day  in  the  day-time, 

And  there  is  no  night  in  Creede. 

The  cliffs  are  solid  silver, 

With  wondrous  wealth  untold, 
And  the  beds  of  running  rivers 

Are  lined  with  purest  gold. 
While  the  world  is  filled  with  sorrow, 

And  hearts  must  break  and  bleed  - 
It's  day  all  day  in  the  day-time, 

And  there  is  no  night  in  Creede. 


[160] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


DENVER 

Denver,  sunny  Denver, 

I  know  the  skies  are  clear, 
I  know  the  winds  blow  gently 

Although  the  leaves  be  sear; 
I  know  the  sunlight  lingers 

On  mountain,  hill  and  plain 
'Round  Denver,  dear  old  Denver 

I'm  going  back  again. 

I  know  the  oak  and  aspen 

Are  burning  as  of  old, 
I  know  the  hills  are  changing 

From  summer  green  to  gold ; 
The  columbine  and  bluebell 

Are  numbered  with  the  slain, 
But  Denver,  dear  old  Denver  - 

I'm  going  back  again. 


[161] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


IN  SAINT  PAUL 

If  you're  ever  left  alone 

In  Saint  Paul, 
There's  a  "conversashiown" 

There  for  all; 
In  the  station,  overhead, 
When  the  shades  of  night  have  fled 
And  the  sun  is  rising  red, 

O'er  Saint  Paul. 

O,  they're  always  going  strong 

In  Saint  Paul, 
Where  the  victims  wait  along 

Down  the  wall; 

You  can  hear  the  beardies  moan 
As  the  vocalizers  hone 
At  the  conversashiown, 

In  Saint  Paul. 

Always,  when  a  barber  dies, 

In  Saint  Paul, 
And  his  comrades  close  his  eyes, 

Over  all 

You  can  hear  the  Union  shout 
As  they  pass  him  up  the  spout : 
"  'Nother  brother  has  talked  out, 

In  Saint  Paul!" 

[162] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARM  AN 


CRIPPLE  CREEK 

Where  yesterday 

We  picked  our  way 

'Mong  trees  where  tangled  timber  lay 

The  happy  hamlet  stands  to-day, 

From  every  hill 

Resounds  the  drill, 

And  where  the  frost  has  hushed  the  rill 

We  hear  the  music  of  the  mill. 

Where  fierce  and  bold 

The  red  man  strolled 

With  painted  face  in  days  of  old 

The  hills  he  touched  have  turned  to  gold. 


[163] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


AT  JAFFA 

High  on  the  beach  the  breakers  dance, 

For  the  winds  blow  hard  from  the  pyramids ; 

And  over  the  sea,  in  sunny  France, 
A  woman  waits  with  tear-wet  lids 

While  the  waves  roll  high  on  the  Syrian  sand 
And  the  ships  go  by,  but  never  land. 

Ah!  cruel  waves;  they  keep  from  me 
Sweet  messages  from  one  most  dear, 

And  all  I  see  is  the  ruffled  sea 

With  sand-soiled  lace.    All  night  I  hear 

The  waves  moan  high  on  the  Syrian  sand, 
But  the  ships  go  by  and  never  land. 

When  the  sea  is  high  the  ships  go  by, 
When  the  sea  is  low  there  are  no  ships; 
My  heart  runs  down  to  my  finger  tips 

And  my  hands  stretch  out  o'er  the  drifted  sand 
But  the  ships  go  by  and  never  land. 


[164] 


More  or  Less  Personal 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARM  AN 


A  TRIBUTE  TO  DR.  DRUMMOND 

A  friend  whose  lips  lie  motionless, 

Whose  name  I  breathe,  not  without  pain; 

Yet,  what  rich  gifts  he  left  to  us, 
The  cheerful  children  of  his  brain  : 

Leetle  Batise,  an  Dieudonne, 

Dose  feller  will  not  pass  away ! 

You  who  have  broken  bread  with  him, 
Have  lingered,  laughing  late  at  night; 

You  will  know  why  mine  eyes  are  dim 
With  tears  that  blur  the  lines  I  write; 

Dare's  won,  he's  frien',  I'm  not  forget, 

Dat  small  cure  of  Calumette. 

Time  rolls,  and  brings  us  frost  and  flowers 
Set  changes  of  the  changeless  years; 

He  passed  'mid  early  April  showers 
As  tho'  the  world  were  moved  to  tears ; 

De  Rosignol  sing  on  an'  on, 

More  sadder  now  'cause  he  is  gone. 

He  would  not  have  his  friends  repine, 

He  fought  and  wrought  and  made  a  name. 

His  work  —  I'd  gladly  make  it  mine, 
Believe,  not  for  wealth  or  fame, 

But  just  because  he  had  to  go 

And  leave  it,  when  he  loved  it  so. 

[167] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


TO  A  PHOTOGRAPH  — B.  W. 

Beautiful  woman  with  wondrous  hair, 
Beautiful  ears  half  hidden  there, 
Beautiful  eyes  that  seem  to  look 
Into  the  world  as  an  open  book; 
Beautiful  hand  with  careless  grace 
Pillows  your  perfectly  pictured  face. 

Beautiful  windows  of  a  sweet  soul, 
Over  you  lightly  the  slow  years  roll, 
Beautiful  heart,  so  tender  and  true, 
Drawing  the  heart  o'  the  world  to  you; 
Wish  I  were  great  enough  just  to  stand 
By  you,  and  breath  you  and  touch  your  hand. 


PAULINE 

I  know  a  woman, 
The  light  of  whose  eyes, 
Is  like  to  the  wonder 
We  see  in  the  skies. 

Whose  lips  seem  to  whisper; 
"  The  rose  is  dew-pearled, 
God's  in  His  heaven, 
All's  well  with  the  world/' 
[1681 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


ROBERT  ELLIOT 

We  rambled  where  the  river  winds 

By  an  abandoned  mill; 
Where  forest  flowers  and  northern  pines 

The  air  with  fragrance  fills. 

A  wild  rose  bloomed  beside  the  trail, 

A  bird  sang  on  a  limb; 
He  whistled  to  a  whistling  quail, 

The  bird  called  back  to  him. 

God  set  his  soul  and  turned  his  song 
And  clarion-clear  it  rang ; 

He  walked  the  woodland,  summer  long, 
And  with  the  song-birds  sang. 

He  wandered  on  across  the  hill 

Where  death's  dark  shadow  creeps; 

The  wild  rose  died,  his  voice  is  still, 
And  with  the  flowers  he  sleeps. 


[169] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


TO  MRS.  -     -  FOR  CHARITY 

Dear  friend,  I  should  like  to  write  something  for 
you, 

But  there's  so  little  here  in  my  head; 
And  life  is  so  short  and  there's  so  much  to  do, 

And  the  children  are  crying  for  bread; 
There   are  stories  for  Munsey,  McClure  and 

Success, 

The  Post,  the  Companion  and  others.     I  guess 
For  this  time,  a  failure  I'll  have  to  confess, 

For  the  children  are  crying  for  bread. 

'Twere  a  pleasure  to  sing  for  the  good  of  the 
cause, 

(But  the  children  are  crying  for  bread) 
And  I  know  in  your  house,  I'd  be  sure  of  applause 

If  I  knew  just  the  thing  to  be  said; 
For  the  women  are  kind  as  the  women  are  fair, 
And  their  laughter  is  lighter  than  timberline  air ; 
If  I  gave  them  a  song,  they  would  give  me  a 
prayer, 

But  the  children  are  crying  for  bread. 

You  know  there  are  times  when  you  can't  do  a 
thing, 

When  the  wheels  whirl  around  in  your  head; 
And  you  must  know  it's  hard  for  a  fellow  to  sing 

With  the  children  all  crying  for  bread. 
[170] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


Though  my  lute  may  be  mute,  you  will  pray 

understand, 

I  am  with  you  in  spirit  all  over  the  land, 
And  to  you  and  your  comrades,  I'm  kissing  my 

hand, 
While  the  children  are  crying  for  bread. 


BILL  AND  HY 

Hy  Ballsome  was  just  one  of  us  - 
Sometimes  he's  better,  sometimes  wo'se; 
Sometimes  when  he'd  get  hot,  he'd  cuss  - 
But  he  never  got  religion. 

Bill  Davis  said  to  him :  "  'z  Hy, 
Where'll  you  be  goin',  by  an'  by; 
You  reckon  you  be  fit  to  die? 
You  ain't  got  no  religion!" 

"Bill  Davis,  I  been  watchin'  you/' 
Says  Hy,  "  an'  when  I  learn  to  do 
To  others  as  they  orto  do, 
I  won't  need  no  religion." 


[171] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


JIU-JITZU  VS.  HOCKEY 
To  T.  R. 

If  you  want  to  rear  a  nation 

To  be  fit  for  future  scraps, 
Cut  away  this  imitation 

That  you're  taking  from  the  Japs. 
You  can  never  win  your  battles 

With  these  monkey-springs  and  squats  - 
To  the  Highlands  and  play  hockey  with  the 
Scots. 

"Hoot,  mon!    Hoot!"  says  big  Mac  donald, 
And  Mac  Williams  answers,  "Hoot!" 

As  he  smashes  Angus  Campbell 
On  the  apex  of  his  snoot ; 

While  the  polished  floor  is  freckled 
By  a  score  of  crimson  spots, 

Ah!    you're  busy  when  you  hockey  with  the 
Scots. 

Hear  Macpherson's  smothered  curses 

As  his  bosom  swells  with  pride, 
And  the  horses  on  the  hearses 

Paw  the  atmosphere  outside 
With  the  coroner  and  undertaker 

Waiting  on  the  spot 
Oh  you're  strenuous  when  you  hockey  with  a 

Scot. 
[172] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


FRIENDSHIP 

Doubtless,  in  dear  old  London, 

If  you  were  ever  there, 
You've  looked  on  Nelson's  monument 

Down  in  Trafalgar  Square; 
Our  Nelson  has  a  monument 

That  higher  still  extends, 
Stouter  than  stone,  it's  builded  on 

The  friendship  of  his  friends. 

Sometimes  this  thing  called  friendship 

Is  likened  to  a  tree 
Among  whose  leaves  on  Summer  eve's 

The  cooling  winds  blow  free; 
It  shades  the  passing  pilgrim 

Whose  weary  way  he  wends, 
A  noble  tree,  it  seems  to  me  - 

The  friendship  of  our  friends. 

At  other  times  this  friendship 

Is  fashioned  as  a  flower, 
Whose  sweet  perfume  pervades  the  gloom 

Of  many  a  weary  hour; 
Our  smiles,  as  so  much  sunshine, 

Will  keep  it  fresh  for  years 
If  grief  should  come,  in  sorrow  dumb 

We  lave  it  with  our  tears. 

[173] 


I  like  to  liken  friendship 

Unto  the  Breath  of  Morn, 
Fresh  from  the  dewy  uplands 

And  singing  through  the  corn, 
Or  Flora,  faring  barefoot 

With  all  her  arms  can  hold; 
A  Peace-flag  on  the  fortress, 

A  sunset  full  of  gold. 

And  so  your  friends  have  fashioned 

A  monument  so  high, 
Its  base  is  hidden  in  our  hearts, 

Its  top  lost  in  the  sky; 
When,  through  the  years  that  follow, 

When  sun  or  shower  descends, 
One  thing  is  sure  and  will  endure, 

The  friendship  of  your  Friends. 


To  NELSON  E.  W. 

From  his  friends  of  the 

New  England  Passenger  Association. 

Boston,  Massachusetts, 

December  21,  1910. 


[1741 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


TO  JULIAN  RALPH,  IN  CHINA 

When  you  drifted  down  the  Pacific 

Across  the  Atlantic  I  sped; 
And  when  you  dropped  anchor  at  Hong  Kong 

I  whistled  down  brakes  at  Port  Said. 

I  came  here  in  quest  of  the  morning, 

The  cradle  of  day  to  behold; 
You  came  here  in  search  of  the  sunset 

'Neath  skies  ever  gilded  with  gold. 

I  swear  my  trail  ends  at  the  morning, 
You  say,  "  Here's  the  edge  of  the  night" ; 

Then  where  is  the  sunrise  and  sunset? 
What  jurist  shall  judge  which  is  right? 

Go  back  to  the  noonland,  my  brother, 

That  holds  the  half  sphere  you  have  known ; 

Come  let  us  be  frank  with  each  other, 
What  land  is  as  fair  as  our  own? 


TO  J.  W.  S. 

Great  little  man,  whose  name  and  fame 

Shall  reach  from  Pole  to  Pole; 
I  wonder  how  so  slight  a  frame 

Can  cage  so  great  a  soul. 

[175] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


HIM 

He  will  come  back.     The  stress  of  things, 
The  Comet  and  the  death  of  Kings 
Eclipse  him  for  a  little  space, 
But  he'll  come  back  to  his  own  place 
On  the  front  page  -  -  The  Crackerjack  - 
He  will  come  back. 

He  will  come  back  again,  and  lo, 
The  Little  Ones  who  think  they  know 
The  inner  workings  and  the  tricks 
Of  twentieth  century  politics 
Will  take  their  chapeaux  from  the  rack 
When  he  comes  back. 


HENRY  PREW 
A  TOAST 

Here's  to  you,  Henry  Prew, 

Henry  Prew,  here's  to  you. 

Happy  Henry !    May  your  skies  be  always  blue ; 

Kindly,  thoughtful,  gentle-souled, 

May  your  joys  be  manifold, 

And  your  sunset  full  of  gold, 

Henry  Prew. 
[176] 


SONGS  OF  CY  WARMAN 


FATHER  J.  C. 

I  know  a  man,  whom  God  gives  me  to  know, 
And  if  I  had  met  with  him  long  years  ago, 
When  the  spirit  was  strong  and  the  flesh  near  so 

frail, 
I  might  not  have  wandered  so  far  from  the  trail. 

But  now  that  I  know  him,  and  since  he  knows 

me, 
He'll  mark  me  and  mind  me,  and  when  I'm  at 

sea 
And  storms  beat  against  me,  he'll  watch  on  the 

strand 
To  beckon  and  beacon  me  back  to  the  land. 


[177] 


uC  SOUTHERN  RESlONA.  _;3RAR^  PAC:.  '". 


[Illlll!  Mill  Mill  Mill  IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIMHIMIIIIII  III 

A     000677113     3 


